


Beneath the Mountains Music Woke

by EmilianaDarling



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Class Differences, Complete, Cultural Differences, Geologically Improbable Hot Springs, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Possessive Behavior, Potential Book Spoilers, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slow Build, Species-ism, Thorin POV, Timeline What Timeline, ambiguous ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being rescued by Bilbo, Thorin begins to realize that his feelings for the halfling are more than simple gratitude. But past ills cannot be so easily undone, and the growing need inside him proves difficult to understand or control. And although he might be king in name, a man without land or wealth has little to offer anyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Clearing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing Tolkien fic, so thank you very much for your understanding and patience! At the moment I'm thinking this story will be at least three chapters. Thank you so much for your feedback, and progress reports will be posted at emilianadarling.tumblr.com

The first time that Thorin Oakenshield laid eyes on Bilbo Baggins, he had been more than a little unconvinced by what he saw.

Having spent much time in the settlements of men during his time as a King-In-Exile, Thorin had never had cause to travel far enough west to encounter hobbits before. On his way to meet the assembled company and acquire their final member, the journey through the Shire – along pristine brooks and past quaint round doors of many colours built into the sides of grassy hills – had left him with a vague sense of resentment instead of an appreciation for its beauty.  It had burned like bile at the back of his throat: here was a land untouched by war, a land that had seemed to exist in such a state of perfect peace that its inhabitants likely couldn’t even remember the last time there had been a call to arms.

It made Thorin hate them, a little bit, even though there was no real reason for it. Made him angry for the lives that his own people, scattered across the vast world and struggling for mere survival, had not been able to lead for so many years.

Finding out that the burglar Gandalf had promised them was nothing but a fussy, useless creature without even a _hint_ of a beard hadn’t helped matters at all. His first impression upon entering the hobbit hole had been how profoundly _delicate_ their so-called burglar was: so much smaller and slighter than dwarves tended to come, clad in expensive-looking linen and surrounded by trifles. His skin was clean and pale, and his hair curled softly around pointed, elf-like ears that made something uncomfortable twist in the bottom of Thorin’s belly.

The realization that Bilbo was a scant fifty years of age had been like another slap in the face, and Thorin had taken the information as proof that the halfling would be of no more use on their quest than a toddling child. Each and every one of the dwarves in his company had proven their worth in one way or another: Bilbo, on the other hand, promised to be nothing but a nuisance.

In many ways, Thorin’s entire life had been defined by his mistakes; they had shaped him like the smith shapes hot iron, fashioning him into the man he was and the king he could not yet truly be. The loss of his kingdom, allowing his grandfather and father to be killed, failing to provide strong leadership for his people in exile – all were emblems of failure that stood out like black marks in his own personal history. 

It was quite possible, however, that underestimating Bilbo Baggins had been the greatest mistake of them all.

 

\--

 

On the third day after the flight from the goblin kingdom and Azog, the company made camp after a long day of walking in a small clearing surrounded by fresh-smelling pine trees. Having lost most of their supplies – first with the loss of the ponies, and then with the chaos they had only narrowly escaped on the backs of the eagles – the past few nights had been pointedly less comfortable than the first leg of their journey.

Although Nori had been dispatched to ‘acquire’ what supplies he could from a nearby village of men two days ago (without any gold in his pockets, and the less Thorin knew about _that_ the better), the few meagre bedrolls, cloaks, cooking supplies, and rations he had returned with were nowhere near enough to last them to Erebor. As a result, company’s progress had been somewhat slowed by the need to scavenge and hunt for food along the way.

Night was just falling by the time Thorin returned with Dwalin from a foraging expedition, and the two of them slipped through the trees to rejoin their friends just as the sun was falling behind the trees. It had been a good forage, Thorin thought: not just because both of their packs were stuffed to the brim with mushrooms and tubers to add to their slowly-growing supplies, but also because of the rare opportunity to spend time with his friend. Although Dwalin had been one of his closest friends – practically a brother – for many years, Thorin’s responsibilities as leader as well as the sheer number of their party had made it difficult for the two of them to spend any time together.

 _Just like the old days,_ Dwalin had said roguishly earlier that day, elbowing his friend and king with little regard to his title as usual. Thorin had rolled his eyes at the time, but it had indeed been a welcome interlude.

Upon their return it was clear that Dori and Oin had done well in gathering firewood, and the blaze in the centre of camp was great enough to almost make up for the lack of real bedding. The warmth of the fire’s glow illuminated the pleasure on their companions’ faces at their return. At the edge of the clearing, Thorin could see Gandalf sitting with his back against a tree trunk, grey cloak wrapped around his body and his hat pulled over his face. Either sleeping or pretending to sleep; it was impossible to tell from such a distance. A pot of Bombur’s stew sat untouched and simmering on the fire, and Thorin pushed down a twinge of discomfort at the realization that everyone had been waiting for his return before eating.

He couldn’t help but notice the halfling, either. The glow of the fire danced over the smooth lines of his face, and his curls seemed to catch the light in a way that made his face appear haloed in the darkness. Caught up in conversation with Bofur and Gloin and with Bifur making animated gestures beside him, Bilbo did not raise his head as Thorin approached. A cloak that was not his own – possibly Bofur’s – was draped over his shoulders to keep out the chill of the night.

“Many thanks for your assistance, my friend,” Thorin said to Dwalin, wrenching his eyes away and reaching out to grip his friend firmly by the shoulder to show his gratitude. Smirking, Dwalin clapped him on the shoulder – the force of which made the still-healing wound in Thorin’s arm sear wickedly with pain. He clenched his teeth, determined not to flinch or gasp. Thankfully, Dwalin didn’t seem to notice as he grabbed both of their bags and headed to store them away from the night. Once the pain in his arm had eased down to a gentle throbbing, Thorin himself headed toward the camp fire.

Earlier in the day Thorin had dispatched Kili and Fili to find meat for dinner, and he was pleased to note that the two of them had returned with enough hares to render tonight’s stew a hearty fare indeed: the smell of richly herbed meat and potatoes was enough to make his stomach growl. Bombur was already dishing up his portion, instinctively serving him first, and Thorin moved forward to grab the bowl and murmur his thanks as the rest of the dwarves crowded around to receive their own.

He sent Ori off with a bowl for Gandalf – doubtless the wizard would be unimpressed if his portion were sacrificed to Bombur’s voracious appetite – and then settled himself down on a somewhat removed patch of grass to eat, comfortable in the knowledge that everyone in the company knew him well enough to let him have his privacy for the moment. He sat and took his first mouthful as the comforting laughter and chatter of his companions washed over him, the sound of it mixed with the gentle hooting of waking owls in the trees around them.

The clearing itself had been chosen because of the clear, shallow stream that edged along its western border, which Gandalf had assured them was almost certainly connected to Anduin, the Great River of Wildland. The proximity of the stream promised that they were still headed in the right direction: after crossing the Great River they would reach the forest of Mirkwood, and after they emerged from that long and darkened road the Lonely Mountain would very nearly be within their reach.

There was a great distance left to travel, and Thorin could only hope that Bilbo was right in saying the worst was now behind them. But the fact that they were so very close – the fact that everyone under his care had made it this far unharmed – was enough to give him heart.

Such closeness to their goal, however, did not change the fact that ever since being rescued by him from death at the hands of Azog the Defiler, Thorin’s outlook on Bilbo Baggins had undergone a rather profound shift.

Thorin frowned into his bowl of stew, chewing thoughtfully on a tougher piece of meat as he did so.  It was... strange, this change of heart. The realization that he had so badly misjudged Bilbo Baggins had come over him all at once and brutally quick, crashing down upon his head as waves crash against the cliff face during a storm. It shamed him to even think it, but he had spent the past three days utterly at a loss at how his outlook on the halfling had undergone such great change in so short a time.

Although he had tried his best to treat Bilbo with warmth and respect in the days following their escape from the enemy, the realization that his feelings were perhaps more laden than simple gratitude had left Thorin feeling uneasy and uncertain. Bilbo had done him the greatest service of them all, and Thorin had been nothing but dismissive of him since the beginning of their journey. It made him powerfully ill at ease, this debt between them. There was only so much that could be done to remedy former ills, and Thorin knew perhaps better than anyone that nothing can truly change the past.

That memory – of Bilbo physically hurling his tiny body into the orc who threatened him, the heat of the spreading flames hot against his face and the screams of his dwarven companions as they clung for their lives ringing in his ears – was the last thing that Thorin could remember before he had lost his grip on awareness and had been dragged into blackness.

The others had told him later that after he lost consciousness, Bilbo had fought with no regard for his own personal safety; that he had acted out of bravery that would have put any dwarf to shame. The memory of their praise – and of the relief on Bilbo’s face when he realized that he was indeed alive – made Thorin shiver in a way that was not entirely due to the cold night air.

It didn’t help, either, that Thorin had always felt some... _discomfort_ at Bilbo’s physical appearance since their very first meeting in Bag End. The bareness of his face, the rich colours and elegant cuts of his clothing – all of it had made Thorin’s stomach twist in a way that only added to his rancour. The details of Bilbo’s appearance had nagged at him and bothered him since the very beginning. Before, he had believed that his discomfort had been merely in response to Bilbo’s unsuitability for their quest.

Now, however, it seemed that his reaction had perhaps originated from somewhat less... _honourable_ intents.

For so long, Thorin’s only purpose  – the one golden goal that he had directed his entire life toward – had been to vanquish Smaug and recapture Erebor, to provide a home for his people and avenge his family. It had been all he had thought about and dreamt about and worked toward for years, and out of the blue his heart had decided to make room for something else. For some _one_ else. It felt selfish to dwell upon the halfling in such a way, but he could not seem to help himself: no matter what he did, Thorin continued to feel a profound pull towards him that seemed to strengthen every day.

As though summoned by his thoughts, the unmistakable sound of Bilbo’s happy laughter reached his ears from across the camp. Thorin looked up sharply, unthinkingly searching out the cause of that laughter with such fervency that he made his spoon clatter loudly in his bowl.

Even from far away, Thorin was immediately able to spot Bilbo sitting by the fire with a dwarf on either side of him. Bifur had apparently wandered off, but Bofur was in the middle of some kind of grand story that had both Gloin and Bilbo practically clutching their sides with mirth. Bofur’s gestures were grandiose and overplayed, and as Thorin watched he grabbed both flaps of his hat and made an exaggerated choking noise that made Bilbo have to quickly cover his mouth to keep from spitting stew everywhere. While Bilbo was distracted, Bofur’s storyteller facade slipped for a moment; even from a distance, Thorin could make out the small, fond smile that tugged at his lips.

Something ugly and awful clenched at Thorin’s chest, and before he fully realized what he was doing he had pushed himself to his feet and was striding purposefully across the camp. Droplets of broth splashed over the sides of his bowl in his haste, but Thorin – too singularly focused and brimming with sudden, crippling irritation – barely even noticed.

“I require the halfling’s presence,” Thorin announced gruffly as soon as he stood in front of the three of them, and the laughter cut off abruptly. Bofur stared up at him with wide eyes, still clutching the sides of his hat, and Gloin looked so ashamed that Thorin felt a momentary twinge of guilt. Bilbo stared up at him in utter confusion, eyes darting around as though he thought Thorin had made some kind of mistake.

“You do?” Bilbo asked, sounding uncertain. Around them, a few of the dwarves seemed to be attempting to steal glances at them without being noticed.

“Of course, Thorin,” said Gloin after a moment, giving Bilbo a meaningful look and a sharp nudge with his elbow. Bilbo did not move to stand, however: he appeared to be rather at a loss of what to do. After a few uncertain moments, Bofur and Gloin began to stand and leave instead. Thorin thought he might have seen Bilbo shoot Bofur a helpless look out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t be quite sure.

Feeling somewhat unreasonably pleased with himself, Thorin lowered himself to the ground to sit next to him. Bilbo opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again and shot Thorin a sideways look. It was rather sweet, Thorin thought, the way Bilbo acted when he didn’t quite know what to say. Thorin felt something longing twist in the base of his stomach, and he quickly schooled away the beginnings of the smile that was forming at the corners of his mouth. Bofur’s cloak was still draped over Bilbo’s shoulders, and for an insane moment Thorin actually considered yanking it off and replacing it with his own. He dismissed the urge, however, focusing instead on the way the bright flames leapt and danced in front of them.

The silence stretched on between them, unbroken and increasingly uncomfortable. It occurred to Thorin rather belatedly that he should probably attempt to say something; he had been the one demand Bilbo’s attention in the first place, after all. He cleared his throat, glancing down at Bilbo beside him.

“... are you enjoying your meal?” he asked, then mentally winced at the triviality of the question. Bilbo blinked at him.

“Yes, I – um. Well, yes. Yes I am,” said Bilbo, the words haltering and awkward. He looked down into his hands and stared pointedly at the small amount of broth left in the bowl. “It’s very... stew-like.”

The moment of stilted silence that followed was thankfully broken by a loud exclamation in Khuzdul from the other side of the camp. Both of them turned at the sound: it was Bifur, who was calling for a song to liven up the evening. When Dwalin roguishly called back that _some_ of them had had a hard day’s work, Bifur responded by making some rather vulgar accusations about Dwalin’s parentage. Everyone laughed, and before long the rest of the camp had broken into _The Ballad of Belegost_ , a very old and very lively song about companionship between soldiers and overcoming seemingly-insurmountable odds.

Hearing his companions’ voices raised in that particular song was enough to bring a smile to Thorin’s face, and he turned to share his contentment with Bilbo. When he turned around, however, Thorin was caught off guard to see that Bilbo’s expression was rumpled in mild confusion. He seemed to be enjoying the song, but the look on his face gave no indication that he understood the words being spoken at all.

 _Of course he doesn’t understand Khudzul,_ thought Thorin, mentally slapping himself in the face for his own idiocy. _Of course he doesn’t_ , _why would he?_ Briefly, he wondered why such an obvious conclusion had caught him so off guard. Bilbo was a hobbit of the Shire: he had no reason to know the secret language of the dwarves. He had simply been so thoroughly accepted into their group that it seemed as though he should somehow instinctively know this aspect of their culture as well.

The lack of comprehension on Bilbo’s face made Thorin feel slightly ill at ease; he wanted to make it go away. Wanted to bring him in so that he could share in this moment as well.

“It is a song about Belegost, a dwarven city of the First Age,” Thorin explained, feeling a small shiver of pleasure when Bilbo’s eyes turned to him in interest. “The dwarves of Belegost were some of the finest smiths in all the world. The song is in reference to an attempted siege of the city during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears; it speaks of the staunchness of heart of the women who forged charms for the soldiers they loved, and of the siege that was withstood through immense bravery. It has long been a beloved song of my people.”

“What happened to them?” Bilbo asked, turning his head to one side and leaning in closer. Thorin felt a pang in his chest. He shrugged.

“They died,” he said simply, and Bilbo bit his lip and glanced toward the ground. “They weathered the siege and won the battle, but they died all the same when the War of Wrath came. Some escaped to Khazad-dûm, but most did not. Belegost does not exist anymore.” _Just like Erebor_ , said an awful voice in his head, but he shoved that thought away before it could take root.   

Bilbo nodded thoughtfully, taking another mouthful of stew. He directed his gaze over Thorin’s shoulder to where their companions were singing heartily, chanting the chorus louder and louder with each recitation. There was something quietly melancholy about his demeanor, and Thorin couldn’t seem to stop his gaze from lingering; over the relaxed curve of Bilbo’s back, the way his eyebrows tugged together. The lines of his mouth, lips pressed together in thought.

“It’s been such a long time since the Shire has seen war,” said Bilbo. After a moment, he laughed. “We’re not made for it, really. We’re all... round bellies and parties and needing our afternoon tea,” he said, shooting Thorin a look at the self-deprecating words. “And our pocket handkerchiefs, of course. We’re not really the stuff of songs, I don’t think. Not really.”

 _There’s more to you than meets the eye_ , Thorin almost wanted to say, but he caught himself just in time. He shifted somewhat uneasily instead, the direction of his thoughts making him feel agitated.

“Actually,” Bilbo commented after a moment, not seeming to notice Thorin’s discomfort. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard Bifur say anything in the common tongue. Does he just not know it, or does it have to do with his... erm.” He gestured clumsily to his own forehead, miming the orcish axe that was permanently lodged in Bifur’s head. Thorin nodded, both amused and relieved at the change in conversation.

“Aye,” said Thorin. “He received that wound when we attempted to take back Moria for our people, and he hasn’t been able to speak the common tongue ever since. It’s a miracle he survived at all, really. Our healers had taken him for dead at first.”

 “Oh, yes, definitely,” Bilbo agreed, sounding both apologetic and overly enthusiastic at once. He winced –  then took another hasty mouthful of stew, all the while looking at Thorin expectantly.

They ate together in silence for a little while, the only sound the loud crackle of the fire in front of them and the voices of the dwarves, who had moved onto a quieter song about love and betrayal and vengeance.  After a few minutes, Thorin relented. Bilbo was clearly still anxious about why Thorin had demanded his presence, and he was not sure how much of his behaviour could be explained in an acceptable fashion. As much honesty as possible, he decided, was likely the best choice in this situation.

 “I am sorry, Bilbo,” he said quietly after a long while, using the hobbit’s first name aloud for what felt like the first time. “I did not mean to coerce you into speaking with me.” He paused. “I have... merely been dwelling on the manner in which I have treated you in the past, and such thoughts made me desire to seek your presence. I wish to make amends for the things I have said to you so that we may one day become true brothers in arms.”

Beside him, Bilbo wrinkled his nose. “Thorin, no, you don’t... you don’t have to apologize. I told you, I would have doubted me too.” He shrugged. “There are things I also wish I could take back, or do differently. But... it’s fine. _We’re_ fine.” He grinned, turning to Thorin and bending his whole body forward in a solemn bow. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” he said half-jokingly, a smile playing along his lips.

Genuine happiness seemed to burst in his chest at the playful gesture, and Thorin reached out and clapped Bilbo on the arm to show his thanks. Grinning, Bilbo did the same to him in response –  and _pain_ burst through Thorin’s arm, shooting from forearm to his shoulder. He inhaled sharply and jerked his arm away, seeking to conceal the reaction – but Bilbo’s entire demeanour had already switched from playful to highly concerned.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asked urgently, his voice rising in worry. He looked suspiciously at the offending arm, and Thorin cursed internally. “Thorin, what is it? What’s wrong?”

 “It’s nothing,” said Thorin stiffly, frustrated with himself. He rubbed the wound concealed by the leather sleeves of his jerkin. “It’s merely the after-effects of one of the warg bites I received before we managed to escape Azog. It will heal, I assure you.”

“Let me look at it,” Bilbo ordered, and Thorin felt his eyebrows rise up in surprise. Bilbo didn’t seem to notice, however: he was already working at removing Thorin’s left bracer. He shook his head when Thorin attempted to gently pull away, latching onto his hand with a strength Thorin hadn’t been entirely aware that he possessed. “I know a thing or two about healing, I promise. Let me look at it.” He paused, seeming to realize for the first time who, exactly he was talking to. He looked up and gave Thorin a beseeching look. “Please.”

There was a pause – before, finally, Thorin conceded with a nod. He dutifully unclasped the fur-lined cloak at his throat, allowing it to fall to the ground behind them. Bilbo gave his hand a gentle squeeze before pulling off his bracer, and Thorin rolled up the sleeve of his leather jerkin. Then slowly, carefully, Bilbo reached forward and unwound the makeshift bandage on his arm – made from the torn cloth of an undershirt since their supplies had been so few – so that the wound was revealed to the air.

The sound of Bilbo’s gasp was such that Thorin did not need to look him in the face to know his reaction. He forced himself not to squirm under the attention as Bilbo’s fingers ever-so-gently traced the edges of the deep gauges. The leather of his jerkin had kept out the worst of the damage, but warg teeth were sharp and their jaws strong. Thorin had washed off the worst of the blood and bandaged himself one-handed, but had mostly chosen to keep the wound hidden and let time do its work. The bite was only slightly puffy and pink around the edges, and he had faith that his dwarvish constitution would prevent a full infection.

“Did you bandage this yourself?” Bilbo asked quietly, and shot him a glare when Thorin nodded. “Why didn’t you talk to Oin? He has salves for such hurts, you know that.”

Thorin shrugged, feeling somewhat defensive. “I have treated many a battlefield wound, Master Baggins. I very much doubt that such a scratch will cause me any discomfort after a week or so.”

“A _scratch_ ,” said Bilbo disbelievingly, shaking his head – before pushing himself onto his feet. Thorin blinked in surprise. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, but Bilbo was already darting across the camp to where their makeshift packs were piled. It was only a few moments before he returned: in his right hand he held a small bowl, and in the left a fistful of long, pale-stemmed flowers.

“Rogun’s Bloom,” Bilbo explained off-handedly, already plunking himself onto the ground down next to Thorin again. He plucked a rock from the ground, brushed off the dirt, and began to use it to determinedly crush the flower stems in the bowl. “It’ll stop the wound from festering, and should also help it to heal without scarring. I saw some a few days ago and pocketed it just in case.” He huffed in annoyance, sending Thorin a nasty look. “Had I known that you had such untreated wounds, I would’ve done this _days_ ago.”

“How do you know this?” asked Thorin in surprise, staring down at Bilbo’s steady hands as he ground the stems into a smooth paste. The wound in his arm throbbed. “Did you train as a healer in the Shire?”

“Goodness, no,” Bilbo snorted mildly, wiping the excess paste off the stone before dropping it easily back onto the ground. “But my old gardener – Hamfast Gamgee, wonderful man, greener thumb than you can imagine – used to spend hours explaining what every herb and plant in our front garden could do, and in my younger years I found nothing more fascinating. I simply happened to remember this plant’s uses.” He reached into the bowl with three fingers and scooped out the pale green salve, reaching forward to apply it to Thorin’s arm before the king could protest.

Thorin hissed in a breath when the salve touched his skin, but not in pain: it was surprisingly cool to the touch, but felt quite pleasant as Bilbo smoothed it gently into the wound. He stopped fighting it, finally relaxing into Bilbo’s touch with a sigh that he hoped his companion didn’t notice. It felt... nice, to be cared for like this. Bilbo’s fingers were soft and uncalloused against the roughness of his own arm; overwhelming and perfect in a way Thorin did not wish to question.

The softness of Bilbo’s hands – affluent hands, pampered hands, hands that spoke of a life of leisure and comfort – made another thought jerk Thorin out of his reverie, and he looked up sharply just as Bilbo seemed to be finishing up.

“There,” Bilbo announced, sounding satisfied. “That should help. I’ll try to find some more so that you can apply it yourself for the next few days. Honestly, I can’t believe you didn’t –”

“You know how to avoid scarring, Master Baggins,” Thorin cut in unsteadily, jerking a hand out to grab Bilbo by the wrist. His wrist was small, so _small_ ; delicate and pale, and Thorin could wrap his hand around it with no challenge at all. Bilbo tensed, glancing down at his wrist and back up at Thorin again. “But do you know how to avoid receiving such wounds yourself, or how to give them to others? Have you received any training at all with that letter-opener of yours?”

Bilbo stiffened, wrenching his wrist out of Thorin’s grasp. “I saved your life without any such knowledge,” said Bilbo intensely. “I’m not –”

“And I would like you to remain alive to do so again,” Thorin snapped, feeling hot, ugly anger rising within him. Not at Bilbo -- not really -- but it came flooding out nonetheless. “How do you propose you will protect yourself should you be attacked while on your own – herbs and salves? Stalling for time again? It was a miracle that you made it out of the goblin caves alive. There are many enemies for which you are no match, Master Baggins, and you must come to accept that.”

 And all at once, the idea of Bilbo being hurt – of Bilbo _dying_ , heavens forbid it – struck a chord of terror so utterly profound within him that Thorin could barely speak. He could practically see it in his mind’s eye: Bilbo caught unawares away from the party, being easily overpowered by man or orc or elf. Everything that could possibly happen to him flashed before Thorin’s eyes and it _hurt_ , it hurt deep inside, and he needed to keep Bilbo _safe_. Needed to lock him up where nobody could see, where nobody could hurt him; tucked away and taken care of like treasure, he was _treasure_ , he needed to be kept safe and protected and _his_ , Bilbo was _his_ –

Thorin wrenched himself violently out of that strain of thought, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm himself down. He glanced up, horrified, only to realize that Bilbo did not seem to have noticed the turmoil inside his head. Instead, the hobbit was sitting with his back uncomfortably straight and his lips pressed together, staring at something off in the distance behind him. His thumb and index finger were tucked into the pocket of his soft yellow vest, a wrinkle of hurt between his eyebrows.

“I’m not entirely helpless,” Bilbo insisted – before deflating, the tension and hurt seeming to ease out of his body as he sagged and nodded. He slid his fingers from his pocket and clasped his hands together, giving Thorin a cowed look. There was a stiffness to the way he held himself that Thorin did not remember being there before. “But... you’re right, of course. I should learn to fight better. It would... make me more useful that way.”

Relaxing somewhat, Thorin nodded. “It would,” he said definitively, because he _was_ right to suggest that Bilbo learn to better protect himself. Even if his motivations for the suggestion were somewhat more overwhelming than they should have been, he was right.

He quickly ran through the members of the party in an attempt to select an appropriate tutor: not all of the dwarves were fighters, and few of those trained in the ways of the sword would make good teachers for such basic technique. Dwalin was too harsh and unforgiving, Balin’s long years of experience would likely make him a better advanced instructor, and Dori was often too occupied with looking out for his brothers to provide comprehensive enough instruction.

His nephews, however, had gone through the steps of learning basic swordsmanship only a few decades ago, which meant that it should all still be fresh in their minds. They were approachable and kind, and both of them possessed a soft spot for the Bilbo that would make them eager to help him. Providing them with such a task would give them a productive outlet for their youthful energy, too, as well as reinforcing the basics of swordsmanship for themselves. Plus, Thorin thought guiltily, he could trust the two of them to keep an eye out for Bilbo without asking too many questions.

“In the morning, I shall instruct Kili and Fili to educate you in the ways of the sword for at least an hour each day,” said Thorin firmly, and Bilbo nodded in acceptance. “I want you to be able to protect yourself – and others of our party – if you are called upon to do so. They should make for good and fair instructors.”

“Yes, Thorin,” Bilbo murmured, obedient and pacified, and Thorin could not quite understand the prickling of unease he felt at the response. He had got what he wanted: Bilbo would learn how to properly wield his sword, and his nephews would be able to protect him when Thorin wasn’t around to do so. Still, though, something unpleasant that Thorin could not fully identify was persistently twisting along the edges of his mind. He felt strangely empty.

“I owe you my thanks for the healing,” Thorin blurted, and Bilbo nodded absently.

“You don’t need to thank me for that,” said Bilbo, and there was some emotion in his voice that Thorin could not identify. He gave Thorin a strange look before grabbing the bowls that had previously held the salve and his stew before rising to his feet. “I should retire now, I think.” He laughed softly. “I have to be well-rested if I’m to be training tomorrow.”

“Of course,” said Thorin, then called out as Bilbo turned to walk away: “Good night, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo paused in his steps, turning to give Thorin a soft smile over his shoulder. “Good night,” he said, mumbling something that might have been _my king_ or might have been nothing at allbefore turning to quickly walk toward his pack and bedroll.

Instead of watching him go, Thorin forced himself to turn and stare into the fire. The other dwarves had stopped their singing long ago, and he did not want to turn around to see if any of them were still awake. He felt strangely numb, as though his skin had turned to stone.

It took him a long time to fall asleep that night, gazing steadfastly into the bright heat until the only sounds around him were the gentle snores of his companions and the persistent crackle of the flames. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this fic is from "The Song of Durin", sung by Gimli as the fellowship journeyed through Moria:
> 
> Unwearied then were Durin's folk;  
> Beneath the mountains music woke:  
> The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,  
> And at the gates the trumpets rang.
> 
> The world is grey, the mountains old,  
> The forge's fire is ashen-cold;  
> No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:  
> The darkness dwells in Durin's halls.


	2. Swordplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your support, everyone! :D I'm delighted that people seem to be enjoying this so far, and I'm so grateful for all of the lovely feedback. And as seems to frequently happen (will I ever be able to write something short?) it looks as though this story might be a bit longer than I originally anticipated. Maybe four chapters? Updates (as well as general flailings) are available at emilianadarling.tumblr.com

At Thorin’s command, Bilbo’s sword fighting lessons began the very next day.

It had been an easy enough task to convince his nephews to take on the additional responsibility. Thorin had approached the two of them in the early hours of the morning, when the chill air and dew-soaked grass made their fireside conversation seem like little more than a half-dreamt memory.

 Both Kili and Fili had accepted the task gladly, as he had suspected they would. Both of them were their mother’s sons: Dis had always been a hearty woman, but she possessed an affable and kindly nature that both of her sons had inherited. Young and reckless and occasionally foolish though they might be, he had never known the two of them to shy away from hard work. They were growing into capable young warriors, and Thorin felt a rush of pride when they happily accepted their new task. He did not doubt they would prove to be excellent tutors.

The fact that Bilbo seemed friendly enough towards him the next morning – a little restrained, perhaps, but not overtly angry, and Thorin _still_ couldn’t seem to figure out where their conversation by the fire had gone so wrong – helped to reassure Thorin more than ever that he’d made the right choice.

The company continued at a slow but determined pace, building up their stockpiles of supplies as they trudged along the ever-widening streams. And other than Gandalf declaring his intention to foray alone for a few days, the only real alteration to their routine came in the evenings; when Kili or Fili would tap Bilbo on the shoulder, tug him aside, and begin teaching him the rudiments of swordsmanship.

The first of Bilbo’s lessons were highly conceptual in nature, as Thorin had advised. His assumption that the halfling had never received a single fighting lesson in his life was soon proven correct by Bilbo’s own admission, and Kili and Fili spent the first few evenings working on the very basics of stance, grip, the names of different techniques. One evening’s lesson seemed to entail his nephews physically demonstrating methods for stalling an enemy just long enough to scramble to safety. In another, Fili even set out all of his personal weapons that he had managed to reclaim from the goblins – the most extensive selection of their entirely company, including two swords, two daggers, a regular-sized axe, and a pair of throwing axes – and had patiently explained how each was used and how best to defend against them on the battlefield.

These initial lessons were so basic, in fact, that the novelty of their resident hobbit learning to fight wore off quicker than Thorin had expected. The rest of the company seemed quite content to either watch the proceedings with one eye or let them have privacy altogether.

Thorin’s interest, however, did not wane quite so quickly.

It was almost like a sickness; as though Bilbo had been seared onto his brain and simply could not be ignored any longer. Taking his eyes off of the halfling was almost physically painful, and even though he trusted Fili and Kili to conduct themselves with safety and integrity he could not seem to resist declaring his intentions to sit on in the first few lessons. He observed in stoic silence, only making a quiet comment here or there. His heart seemed to clench whenever Bilbo glanced nervously up at him. Any lesson he did not overtly shadow was always spent wondering how the proceedings were going in frustration.

Even though Bilbo had reacted so badly to the idea of being instructed, Thorin was quietly pleased to note that he took to the lessons rather well. He discovered that Bilbo was both an excellent student as well as a quick learner, and the speed with which he was able to grasp ideas and techniques made a raw pride swell in Thorin’s chest. It helped, he told himself, that Kili and Fili were the ones doing the teaching. As with most things in life, the two of them approached the task with good humour and high energy, and Bilbo seemed to enjoy learning from them.

And if his eyes lingered a little too long over the way Bilbo’s hands wrapped around the sword hilt, or the way the exertion made Bilbo’s cheeks flush and his sweet curls dampen with sweat...

He berated himself firmly whenever such ideas began to edge along the corners of his mind, roughly shoving such thoughts away with the bitter taste of shame at the back of his throat.

 

\--

 

Because of an unexpected encounter with a rogue band of orcs that caused a rather unpleasant detour, it took the company an extra three days to make their way back onto their path. By that point, Kili and Fili had apparently decided that their pupil had gained enough confidence to begin drilling techniques in earnest.

This was, of course, the exact moment that the rest of the company decided to start taking an interest.

The day’s lesson was taking place a good few hundred paces away from their camp site, right up against the banks of the stream they had been following. Thorin arrived from a meeting with Oin and Gloin to discover that a small cluster of assorted dwarves had gathered to watch. His nephews, seemingly at a bit of a loss at what to do, half-heartedly demonstrated thrusts and parries for Bilbo to copy as the throng of onlookers nattered and commentated and cheered in turn. Bilbo himself seemed to be growing more and more flustered by the second.

 “A hobbit fightin’ a dwarf,” snorted Dwalin in amusement, though not with any real spite. “Had to see this for myself.”

“Hey now,” Bilbo exclaimed, giving his sword a decidedly distracted swipe. “I don’t think –”

“You can do it, Mr. Bilbo!” shouted Ori excitedly, his knitted hood bouncing up and down as he jumped in place.

“I – well. Thank you,” Bilbo finished awkwardly, missing the next move he was supposed to be imitating entirely. “But it’s really not –”

“A lot of rough things can happen during a sword practice,” Bofur interjected in a wise tone, cocking his head and smiling earnestly. “You could have your fingers chopped off, just like that! Or perhaps a little poke with the pointy end. Bloody little messes, stab wounds.”

“ _Bofur_.” Bilbo’s voice dripped with frustration, but he seemed to grow ever-so-slightly paler at the mention of chopped fingers. He jabbed his sword forward angrily, as though he was imagining someone being impaled on its point. “Can you _not_ , really, I’m _trying_ to –”

But the babble only got louder, drowning out Bilbo’s protests as well as any tips or pointers that Kili and Fili might have been attempting to bestow on him. It was funny – it _should_ have been funny, at least, and most of the company seemed to be treating an angry Bilbo in much the same way they would a hissing kitten. Only Fili and Kili were looking increasingly disheartened, and Bilbo’s whole body seemed to be tensed with frustration and embarrassment, and Bilbo was _trying_. He was, he was trying to learn something that might save all of their lives one day, and all his companions could do was point and mock and stare.

Thorin could feel his fists clenching at his sides, the sound of his own heart pounding louder and louder in his ears until –

“ _Enough_.”

Everyone froze, and it took Thorin half a moment to fully realize that it was he who had shouted – _roared_ – at the cluster of gathered dwarves, the word imbued with every bit of authority he could muster. Everyone was turning to him in surprise, now, and Thorin was shocked to realize that he could feel himself _vibrating_ with anger. He took a deep breath, then another, before glaring at the onlookers.

“Did any of you have a crowd of spectators on your very first day learning to wield a blade?” Thorin asked slowly, his voice was full of ice and order. Several of the dwarves at least had the decency to look guilty, either gazing down at their feet or off into the trees. Even Dwalin looked apologetic, and Bofur was wringing his hands in front of him. “Go about your business and leave him be. I’m sure the hobbit will be happy to demonstrate his skills once he’s had a chance to hold a sword for longer than a few moments.” 

Disappointed and well-reprimanded, the troupe of would-be spectators turned on their heels and headed back toward the campgrounds. Only somewhat shamed, Thorin felt a rather unnecessary amount of pleasure at the sight of Bofur’s retreating back. He stifled a smile.

 “On your way, then!” shouted Kili cheekily, and Fili cuffed him gently on the head even as he sent the retreating dwarves a gleeful wave. Their enjoyment at being included when others were not was palpable, and Thorin sent them an amused look.

He shook his head, turned – and was unexpectedly confronted with a very scattered-looking Bilbo less than a foot away. He almost _jumped_ , but managed to control himself at the very last second even though the startled energy pounded like drums in his veins.

 _Perhaps Gandalf is right about hobbits being light on their feet,_ he thought distractedly before Bilbo began to speak. 

“Thank you for that,” Bilbo exhaled, looking very relieved. He reached up and ran a hand through his curls, shaking his head. “Really. I know they meant well, but I barely know how to _hold_ this thing let alone impress anyone with it.”

“You’re learning quickly,” said Thorin, his voice sounding awkward to his own ears, but Bilbo looked up at him sharply. His eyes were wide and surprised, as though the small compliment was the best thing he had ever heard. Emboldened, Thorin continued. “It takes commitment to learn a new weapon in adulthood; most of my men learned their own when they were but boys. You’re doing well.”

There was a pause – before a wide, genuine grin spread across Bilbo’s face. “Thanks,” he said, before letting out a startled laugh. At Thorin’s quizzical eyebrow-raise, he explained. “If the Sackville-Bagginses could see me now, they’d probably drop dead from horror.”

The thought seemed to cheer him rather than make him sad, so Thorin gave him a small smile in return. He took a quick look around – but Fili and Kili seemed to have run off somewhere. How strange. He glanced down at Bilbo’s hands, frowning as he remembered something about Bilbo’s practice strokes that he had witnessed before ordering the onlookers away.

“Your stance is good,” Thorin began, “but your strokes are too heavy for such a little blade. My nephews forget that your weapon is elvish steel: it’s light and quick, not the heavy swords they themselves learned on.” He hesitated, gesturing at Bilbo’s sword. “May I show you?”

Bilbo swallowed, blinking at him. “All right,” he said after a moment, handing the blade over so that Thorin could demonstrate. It felt so light in Thorin’s hand, his fingers thick and large around the slimness of the hilt. He moved a few paces back, then gave the air a few experimental strikes.

“I went through the same transition when I claimed Orcrist,” Thorin explained, his eyes trained on Bilbo even as Bilbo was looking at the sword. “When you learn to fight a certain way, removing that training from your mind can often prove a challenge.”

Bilbo nodded in understanding, and the movement made one of his curls – which had grown longer and slightly untamed since they left the Shire – shift so that it was just barely grazing his eyelash. Thorin’s fingers twitched with the sudden urge to reach up and nudge it back into place, but instead he took another step back. He coughed, raised the little sword in the air – and demonstrated a common practice set in the air. Sideswipe, sideswipe, thrust, upwards cut, and all the while the little blade felt as light as a feather in his grasp. He felt close to _preening_ from the pleasure of having Bilbo’s eyes on him, intense and focused, but caught himself just in time.

“Focus on the movements of your wrists,” said Thorin, emphasizing his movement accordingly. “You don’t need strength to wield a blade like this, and there’s no point in hurling it around like you’re using a greatsword. See?”

He lowered the blade before taking a step forward and handing it back to Bilbo, who seemed to be slightly flushed.  “Thank you,” said Bilbo, turning quickly away from Thorin to give the sword an experimental swipe of his own.

The sight of him – back turned, dressed in his soft-looking maroon jacket that had once been so luxurious but was now world-won by many smudges and tears – was more than Thorin could resist. Without even thinking about it, without even stopping to _consider_ how incredibly stupid he was being, Thorin stepped forward and right into Bilbo’s personal space, his chest pressed right against Bilbo’s back.

Bilbo startled against him, almost dropping the sword as he tensed up violently. Thorin quickly reached up, resting his hand against Bilbo’s sword arm in a guiding, soothing gesture.

“May I show you?” he asked softly after a moment, an echo of his previous question. The roughness of his own voice surprised him. Bilbo hesitated – before nodding in acquiescence.

“All right,” said Bilbo, the words almost a whisper. For a mad moment, Thorin almost imagined that he could feel Bilbo shiver against him. He reached up and laid his other hand against Bilbo’s shoulder – to calm him just in case he was nervous.

There was a long, heavy pause – until Bilbo slowly raised his arm in the air and gave his sword a cautious, testing swipe. Thorin’s hand guided his arm, focusing intently on the way Bilbo’s hand arced.

“That’s it,” he said, squeezing Bilbo’s shoulder. “Feel the blade curve with the air. Let its speed and sharpness do the damage for you.”

“It did once impale a warg’s skull without much trouble,” said Bilbo, laughing shakily. Thorin hummed a small laugh behind him, trying to feel guilty for the way he was reveling in the feel of Bilbo’s back pressed up against his chest. He felt so _small_ against him, narrow and delicate where Thorin was rough and broad. He wondered how it would feel to rest his chin atop Bilbo’s curls; if Bilbo would pull away if Thorin wrapped his arms around his chest, holding him tight from behind and just breathing in the green, fresh smell of him.

It occurred to him that the incident with the wargs could have ended far worse for Bilbo than it had, and Thorin felt a sudden clenching in his chest at the idea of Bilbo being hurt. At him bleeding, or in pain, or clutching at a wound that Thorin never should have allowed to happen in the first place. In front of him, Bilbo seemed completely oblivious to Thorin’s unease as he continued to practice his sword strokes.

 _It gives me great anxiety that he wears no body armour,_ thought Thorin distractedly, his mind drifting to the light linen shirts Bilbo tended to wear. Such clothes tended to reveal a distracting patch of skin right below his neck, and there was never any mail or leather peeking out beneath them. Once again, the notion of _hiding the halfing away_ came treacherously into his mind: of keeping him where no one could ever see or touch, of locked doors and guards to keep him safe, of covering him from head to toe in mithril just to be sure.

“Thank you,” came Bilbo’s voice, the sound stilted and awkward and sudden. Thorin jerked out of his reverie, his heart pounding so hard that he could only hope and pray that Bilbo did not notice. He felt rather than saw Bilbo shrug his shoulders. “For, um. Helping me with this; for making me less useless. I really do appreciate it, you know.”

For a second, Thorin faltered. The words were laden with a kind of peculiar heaviness, and Thorin felt something twist uncomfortably in the base of his stomach. He wished very much that he knew the right combination of words to make Bilbo’s doubts go away, but the memory of their conversation by firelight a few nights ago burned brightly in his mind. Somehow, his reassurances always seemed to turn sour as soon as they left his lips.

“Don’t say such things,” he said gruffly, feeling uncomfortable and tight in his chest. “You are not a burden, I told you as much.”

It seemed as though there was more he should say, but Thorin could feel Bilbo tensing up – before relaxing heavily, as though Thorin had finally managed to say something right. Thorin stepped back quickly, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with their close proximity, and Bilbo turned to face him. There was a small smile on his lips that made his laugh lines more pronounced, and the very tips of his slightly-pointed ears were just visible through his curls. His linen shirt that had begun their journey so crisp and white was nearly grey and fraying along the edges, but he seemed to almost glow with a calm contentedness nonetheless.

He looked very beautiful. 

If they were in Erebor – Erebor as it used to be, not the devastated shell it had become – Thorin would have given Bilbo his weight in gold and more as a gift to win his favour. He realized that, now; the stirrings in his chest could no longer be denied, and Bilbo was special. So special, so _small_ , so much courage and strength hiding behind that sweet smile.

He wanted Bilbo; wanted the hobbit to wear rings branded with the insignia of Durin, to clad himself in only the finest clothes that gold could buy, to let Thorin call him _his_ in every conceivable way so that everyone who looked would know exactly who he belonged to. Thorin would have draped him in fine golden chains and glittering gems – _green and yellow, perhaps, the colours of the Shire_ – just to see him smile. Just for the _chance_ that Bilbo might forgive him for past wrongs; for the mere possibility that he would stay by Thorin’s side and help him rebuild a shattered kingdom.

But this was not Erebor.

In front of him, Bilbo was smiling – but all Thorin could feel was a growing cold gathering in his chest. He gave a small bow, nodding back towards their camp.

“You had best find my nephews,” said Thorin, the words coming out more abrupt than he had intended. He gave his head a shake. “To finish your lesson. And be careful: Gandalf says these lands may be home to shapeshifters.”

“I will be,” said Bilbo, blinking, but Thorin was already turning and heading into the woods. He needed a moment – needed to _think_ – and that meant heading away from the camp, away from his companions. Away from Bilbo, whose eyes Thorin pretended not to feel on his back as he fled.

 

\--

 

As far as Thorin could tell from the darkening sky, it was almost an hour later when Balin and Dwalin found him. He did not look up as they stepped through the trees, although he had heard them long before they came into sight. Hushed words and heavy footsteps they made no effort to conceal, and the rustling sound of walking through foliage that meant they wanted their presence to be known.

It was a good little glade. Full of soft, tall grass and the tops of the trees far enough apart for the moon’s light to shine through the canopies. Too small for all fourteen of them to make camp, but more than adequate for a single dwarf. Fireflies had started to come out a little while ago.

After leaving Bilbo, Thorin had made the decision that his weapons required immediate cleaning and sharpening. Orcrist never seemed to grow dull, the Elvish craftsmanship frustratingly flawless, but it had been too long since his broadsword and main axe had received proper attention. He was attacking his axe with a whetstone and considerable fervour when Balin cleared his throat.

“Dinner’s ready, laddie,” said Balin, his voice full of warmth and welcome.

“You still pouting?” Dwalin grunted, and Thorin finally wrenched his eyes away from his weaponry long enough to look up at them.

The two of them were such a funny sight together, as always. Snowy white hair bright in the moonlight, Balin stood with a look of gentle sternness on his face. He seemed positively tiny next to Dwalin, whose imposing stature coupled with his crossed arms made him look as though he was gearing up for a fight. Although the two were brothers, they were so radically different in appearance and the age gap between them so vast that many did not realize their familial relationship.  What they shared, however, was countless years in Thorin’s closest confidence. With Balin as a mentor and Dwalin as a companion-in-arms, he had never wanted for friendship.

Now, however, their familiarity did not feel like a boon. Thorin scowled.

“I do not _pout_ ,” Thorin muttered, giving the blade of his axe a forceful  stroke with the whetstone and glaring at Dwalin.

“Could’ve fooled me,” said Dwalin, looking at Thorin with unconvinced eyes and raising a single thick eyebrow. Thorin just managed to stop himself from _growling,_ and for a moment he seriously contemplated whether or not getting into a quick scrap with his friend would make him feel better or worse.

“What my brother _means_ to say,” Balin piped up, sending Dwalin a reproachful glance that his brother merely shrugged off, “is that we’ve both known you for a very long time.” He walked over to Thorin and then lowered himself to the ground slowly, taking a moment to straighten his long brown coat. Dwalin followed carelessly, flumping down onto the grass with considerably less gentleness. They sat like that amongst the tall grass in a makeshift circle: Balin with his back straight and legs crossed, Dwalin a sprawl of limbs, and Thorin coiled like a spring with his back against a tree.

Across from him, Balin gave Thorin a _look_ over the bridge of his nose. “The others might not have noticed, Thorin, but don’t think for a second that we haven’t.”

“You want to bugger the burglar,” said Dwalin bluntly, nodding in understanding, and Thorin nearly brained himself on the tree trunk he was leaning against as he shot back in shock. There was a muted _thump_ as Thorin’s axe fell from his limp fingers and landed on the ground, and the choked-off spluttering noise that escaped his gaping mouth was completely involuntary. Dwalin gave him a pat on the arm, and Thorin could see Balin closing his eyes and rubbing his temple in a long-suffering expression.

“I don’t – I mean, that’s not –” Thorin blurted in a strangled voice, and Dwalin threw back his head in laughter. Horrified, Thorin thought he could feel heat spreading across his cheeks.

It was _completely unfair_ , he thought, that after all he had been through – all the enemies faced, all the battles lost and won – that his two closest friends could still make him feel about forty years old without barely even trying.

“Oh, come on!” said Dwalin, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re hardly _subtle_ about it, you great royal lump.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why you don’t just take him, if you want him so badly. I don’t imagine he’d _object_.”

Something contracted frantically in Thorin’s chest, but he shoved the feeling aside and sent Dwalin a hard stare.

“You know not of what you speak,” said Thorin, looking determinedly into Dwalin’s blue eyes and forcing his voice to be as level as possible. Even so, a hint of unsteadiness lingered in his words nonetheless. “It is... not as simple as that.”

Dwalin snorted. “I doubt that,” he said. “I’ve seen you two together.”

At that, Thorin gave a hard wince. Just think about how horrendously transparent he must have been since the day they escaped from the goblins was enough to make him never want to look any of his companions in the eye again. Balin gave him a sympathetic look that did nothing to make him feel better.

“Can’t say I’m not surprised,” Dwalin rumbled, moving his head from side to side so that his neck cracked noisily. He straightened after a moment, shooting Thorin a little grin. “I mean, he’s comely enough in his own way, I suppose. Guess I just never took you for the type to go searching for a bit of fun.”

The words were meant as a tease, as a jibe. Instead, Thorin swallowed hard and looked away.

When Thorin was young – only twenty, barely old enough for the memories to be solid in his mind – his mother had passed away during a great sickness. The memories he had of her death were so fleeting and foggy that he sometimes could not discern if they were real or imagined: the heavy wool of the blankets they had wrapped her in when she sweated and sweated and couldn’t get warm, the way she had held his hand and whispered his secret name in Khuzdul over and over until his hand was stiff but he could not care, how small she had looked in her sickbed without her ever-present jewelry.   

But more than anything else, Thorin remembered the utter _devastation_ that had engulfed his father once she passed. It had been as though he had lost mother and father both, in those first few months. Thrain locked himself in his room and barely ate, and the raw wailing of his sobs had echoed in the halls of Erebor every day for a long time. When he finally emerged, it had been like a piece of him had been carved away with a dull knife: he lived, but a part of him had been lost forever. He went about his life, but he would never be the same.

That was how most of their kind loved: with all their minds and all their hearts, a deeply personal adoration that was all-consuming in its intensity. It had not been until his years in exile in the towns of men that Thorin had even realized that the utter dedication and _love_ that persisted long after death was not necessarily customary in other races. For men, marriages were many but few of them were truly happy. For dwarves, there were few marriages – few women, few whose hearts beat for one another – but almost all of them lasted a lifetime.

There were some exceptions, of course. There were those who never met anyone to make their heart stir, and some of them chose lives of variety. Every so often widowed dwarves were able to find a new spouse to spend their lives with, and even more rare were the dwarves who chose to break their marital vows.

Those were the exceptions. Overall, however, devotion was the rule.

Thorin swallowed, looking down at his lap. It was almost fully dark out, now, although the moonlight still shone bright above them. He took a deep breath.

“That would be because I am not.” said Thorin, the words very slow and very quiet. It had been hard enough, he thought, to accept his fascination with the halfling within the confines of his own mind. Confessing it out loud made him feel incredibly exposed; as though not only his clothing but his very skin had been peeled back for all the world to see.

When he glanced back up at his friends, he saw that Dwalin’s mouth was slightly open in a gobsmacked expression that made him look decidedly less fearsome.

“Oh,” said Dwalin dumbly. He grunted; Balin had elbowed him sharply in the ribs and muttered something that sounded very much like _I told you so_ under his breath. Afterwards, Balin turned and gave Thorin a look that made him feel very much like a dwarfling small enough to hide behind his father’s cloak.

“So you intend to...?” asked Balin, but Thorin cut him off with a shake of his head.

“I don’t know. I don’t –” he swallowed hard, feeling lost. There was a long pause. “I can’t,” Thorin said eventually, and the realization made him feel like something was fragmenting inside of him. “I can’t,” he said again, unnecessarily, and closed his eyes. 

“Is it about the succession?” asked Balin after a moment, sounding uncertain.

“What?” Thorin asked, eyes flying open. He scrubbed a hand, shoving his long hair out of his eyes. “No, of course not. I have my sister-sons as heirs, the succession is not a concern. It’s just...”

Thorin thought about the soft comforts of Bag End, with its tidy little front garden and squashy armchairs and wide rounded doorways that had seemed polished to within an inch of their lives. The dawn light had poured through the windows the morning they left. There had been a brass kettle on the fireplace and doubtless a closet full of embroidered vests and velvet smoking jackets, and all of it so homely and quaint and _foreign_ to him. His mind flashed to the cold, damp places that he’d had to make do with during his time in exile: hostile human towns and the heat of the forge that had blistered his skin, scrounging for enough gold just to feed himself and the dwarves in his care.

He thought about the cool stone of Erebor’s halls; of how much he had adored growing up there, in a kingdom of wealth and majesty where the tunnels never seemed to end. The very idea of those beautiful halls and the treasure they held made his very fingers _itch_ with the desire to take it back, to reclaim it – but he knew that Bilbo was not like him.

Because Bilbo was a hobbit, and the Shire was his home. He belonged there; he had said as much. And when this adventure was complete, no matter what Thorin might do, Bilbo would leave him and return there. Even if he could convince Bilbo of his own worth, there was small chance the halfling would have any desire to stay with him even if they _did_ manage to recapture Erebor.

His only hope, Thorin knew, was to win his heart with gold and gifts – and he had neither to his name. He owned nothing but the clothes on his back and the steel in his hand, no better than a common peasant. If he could defeat Smaug, reclaim his family’s treasure – or the Arkenstone, perhaps, and what a gift _that_ would be – then perhaps he could stand a chance. But until then...

“I have nothing to offer him,” said Thorin simply. Across from him, Dwalin scoffed.

“You’re a _king_ ,” he said dismissively, as though Thorin had somehowforgotten.

“A king without land!” Thorin barked back, anger and hopelessness flaring inside him like a spark that caught alight. He glared at Balin and Dwalin, challenging them to contradict him. “A king without a people, a king without a _kingdom_. A suitor without gold or gifts?” Thorin asked in disdain, giving a hollow laugh. Dwalin winced, and Balin looked down at his the ground with a carefully neutral expression. “You know better than that. You _both_ know better than that.”

“Thorin –” protested Balin, but Thorin just shook his head.

“No,” said Thorin, his voice brooking absolutely no opposition. Balin fell silent. Thorin took a long, deep breath; he took a moment to collect himself, trying to gather all of his melancholy and anger and force it somewhere deep inside where he could not look upon it. Both of his companions were very, very silent. Thorin let out a sigh. “Do not speak of this to him, or to anyone,” he said quietly. “That is a command.”

 He got to his feet and picked up his weaponry, sliding it back into its various sheathes and places of concealment without looking either of his friends in the eye. Once all of his possessions were in place, he turned to leave – but only got a few paces away before he halted, lingering. He could feel both Balin and Dwalin’s eyes on his back.

“Thank you for your concern,” he said, stiff but polite. “You two... you are my dearest and oldest friends, and I have not forgotten that. I know you meant well tonight.” He paused. “We will speak of this again once we have recaptured Erebor.”

And with that, Thorin left the glade.


	3. In Beorn's Hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience, everyone! Also, thank you as always for letting me know what you think. Updates and general flailings are available at my tumblr (emilianadarling.tumblr.com) :3
> 
> At this point, dedicated Tolkien enthusiasts will have noticed the severely altered geography I’ve been using for this story thus far. Beorn’s Hall and the Carrock are, of course, much closer than I’ve made them up to be. For the purpose of pacing and tension, however, I chose to alter the geography for my own purposes.

 

The morning after they crossed the Anduin, Gandalf rejoined their party with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and an extra spring in his step. The old man puffed himself up into some combination of _irritated_ and _privately amused_ upon his arrival, chiding them for all manner of blunders.

Some of the supposed blunders were legitimate, such as his blustered reprimands at their decision to light a campfire in that particular location. The fear of being discovered by nearby enemies was especially profound so close to Mirkwood, and Thorin privately conceded that perhaps the fire had not been their best decision.

Other blunders, however, such as his extreme annoyance that the company was not already risen and packed by the time that he arrived – before the sun had fully risen and without any warning – were less well-founded.

As soon as everyone was ready enough to leave, Gandalf easily swept forward and began to lead them in a slightly different direction than they had previously been heading. Although Thorin continuously demanded to be informed of their destination, Gandalf blithely refused with a smile on his face all the while. The only answer he gave was to say they were going “to a friend, my lad, to a friend!”, a phrase that he took to repeating every time the question was raised.

 _Wizards,_ Thorin thought cantankerously upon being refused for the fifth time, _are far more trouble than they are worth._ He dropped back a little ways, the secretive air having put him in a thoroughly foul mood.

The entire situation was made even more confusing around an hour into their march, when Gandalf shouted for Bilbo to join him at the head of the party. Thorin felt his eyebrows rise sharply at the seemingly-random demand, turning around to look at Bilbo in surprise. Bilbo seemed as confused as he was, blinking in surprise where he had moments before been conversing lightly with Bombur. He hesitated, grabbed onto his pack straps – and hurried forward to join Gandalf, looking uncertain but willing to help.

A few feet ahead of him, Gandalf spoke to Bilbo just quietly enough that Thorin could hear nothing of their conversation. It was aggravating beyond words, adding to his already sour temperament. He glared in frustration at their backs as they walked, tempted to barge ahead and make another attempt at demanding answers.

The ground grew steeper as they walked, the harsh pace making Thorin’s still-healing wounds ache and throb under his armour. The foliage was thick and the trail unpleasant, and his anger at being excluded from the leading of his own company was enough to keep him stewing unpleasantly all the while.

For a little while, Fili came up alongside him and attempted to provide an obvious but well-intentioned distraction as they walked. It was partially successful: they had a long discussion about the methods for transporting dwarves from the Blue Mountains to Erebor once the mountain had been reclaimed, as well as theorizing about which important dwarves should be made in charge of certain vital areas of rule. Their conversation could not entirely ease his worries, however, with the result that Thorin’s foul mood was still simmering quietly right up until the very moment he crested the hill.

The broad oak trees began to thin, and then part, and as they reached the top of the small hill they were able to see it for the first time. Bilbo’s quiet gasp of delight ahead of him alerted Thorin of some change half a heartbeat before it came into his own view, but the sight was still boggling in its sheer difference from the rest of the landscape.

A great valley lay in front of them, a grand wooden hall nestled in its centre. The hall was surrounded by lush grassy fields and edged by a babbling stream, with a few circular pools beyond that. There was an enormous garden on the hall’s other side, and it was the colours of the garden that shocked Thorin at first: bright and brilliant and _so very many_ , the beds clearly bursting with life even from a distance. There seemed to be a large wooden gate on another end of the enormous clearing that Gandalf had cleverly led them behind, as well as funny little straw-shaped things that might just be bee hives.

But the truly impressive feature was the house itself. It was _massive_ , clearly made from solid wood and doubtless an incredibly staunch guard against enemies. It looked large enough to house their party three times over.

“It is the home of Beorn, a skin-changer,” Gandalf explained, whiskers twitching as he smiled at the hall in obvious pleasure. “There was once a race of such men, who could change their skins as easily as we change clothes. The orcs grew strong, however, and now it is only he that remains.”

He turned to glance at the dwarves, who were staring at the sight ahead of them, before turning his gaze on Thorin specifically. His expression sharpened. “He is not a trusting man, and quick to anger. But he is kind enough if humoured, and I suspect that he will let us stay once he learns of our escapades in the goblin tunnels.”

“It has been long since we have had proper rest,” Thorin agreed haltingly after a pause, dragging his eyes away from the extensive bee hives to return Gandalf’s gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bilbo staring off at the house uncertainly. “But fifteen guests may be seen as too great an imposition if he is as quick to anger as you say.”

“Ah, yes.” Gandalf twinkled merrily, looking a great deal more animated than he had been in quite a long time. “That is where our little burglar comes in.”

 “... pardon?” asked Bilbo, his eyes wide in comical unease. Gandalf merely smiled.

 

\--

 

Fifteen guests would be easy to turn away all at once. Parties of two or three merely looking for some shelter during a long journey, however, would hopefully be more difficult to dismiss. And for all that Thorin protested that going down to the hall in small groups left them vulnerable, the plan seemed to work very well indeed.

They waited at the border of the large oak trees, staggering their entrance in twos and threes that seemed to automatically fall along family lines. Gandalf and Bilbo went first, the halfing nearly scurrying to keep up with Gandalf’s wide steps. They were followed by Balin and Dwalin, then Oin and Gloin ten minutes later. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur came along after that, followed by Dori, Nori, and Ori and then Fili and Kili a little after. Thorin would go last, a decision that was as aggravating as it was practical: there was no need to thrust the entire nature of their quest on Beorn until Gandalf and Bilbo had sweet-talked him as much as possible.

Waiting alone at the border of Beorn’s lands was maddening, and Thorin paced restlessly for almost the entire time. Even though the house and gardens seemed still and quiet, he could not help but fret over the safety of his companions.

One companion in particular, perhaps. Thorin felt heat rising in his face, then dismissed it as anger. When Gandalf had revealed his desire to use Bilbo as a strategically calming presence, Thorin had very nearly _demanded_ for Gandalf to swear he would not allow Bilbo to come to any harm before Thorin would allow him out of his sight. It was a ridiculous instinct, and Thorin had been able to repress it – but the fact that he had been left behind and had no _idea_ whether or not Bilbo was safe still rankled him badly.

Without even fully realizing, his need to keep track of Bilbo – to have an idea of where he was at all times, to ensure that someone was always with him – had grown into something consuming and impossible to ignore over the past few days. It itched under his skin and gnawed at his thoughts, sometimes even drowning out even the desperation to reclaim Erebor that always thrummed at the back of his mind.

It was frightening, how out of control and _powerless_ Thorin felt against the instincts and impulses that were ever-growing inside him – and the worst of it was that he and Bilbo weren’t even _involved_. It was all in his head, all in his _stupid_ head, and Thorin understood for the first time why some of the warriors he knew in his youth had hoped they would never find the person to make their heart stir.

 _It makes you weak,_ Thorin realized in horror, something deeply uncomfortable clenching in the base of his stomach.

At his sides, Thorin’s hands clenched into fists. He almost wanted to lash out in anger; to strike at the trees around him with axe and sword, to gouge great chunks out of their bark. Something inside of him felt so inexpressibly exhausted at the realization, however, that he couldn’t seem to muster the effort. He unclenched his hands with a concerted effort, letting out a hard breath and leaning against one of the oak trees.

These _feelings_ he was having weren’t just inconvenient: they were dangerous, both to their quest and to his people. Weakness wasn’t something he had ever had the luxury of, and that was more true than ever now. He clenched his eyes shut and gathered himself, shoving it all down and bolstering the walls that kept him stable, kept him sane.

And he could not – _would_ not – let his people down because of his own personal failings. Not now; not when Erebor was so close to their reach.

Resolution hard against his skin, Thorin opened his eyes. He took a deep breath, straightened his back – and began to walk down into the valley and toward the wooden hall.

 

\--

 

Despite Gandalf’s warnings about the shortness of his temper, Beorn proved to be a surprisingly decent host. Although Thorin quietly tucked himself at Bilbo’s side as soon as he entered the hall, it was quickly apparent that there had been nothing to worry about: Gandalf’s explanations and platitudes had worked wonders, and Bilbo had apparently been sufficiently unintimidating to convince Beorn they posed no threat.

As much as it pained Thorin to admit it, Beorn was so shockingly large that it was almost impossible not to feel like a child next to him.  It wasn’t very often that Thorin truly noticed his own height: men and elves were the strangely long and stretched ones, after all, and the compact strength of the dwarves was clearly superior in almost every respect.

Beorn, however, stood taller and broader than any man or elf he had ever seen, with a great black beard and an intimidating demeanour. The contents of the hall were _enormous_ as a result _:_ rough-hewn tables and benches that came up to Thorin’s chest,carvings of bears and boars as big as they were, and even great grey dogs that padded around and seemed to accept their presence as a minor inconvenience.

“You can stay for a few days,” Beorn announced once all of them were gathered, his great thick arms crossed as he surveyed them. His voice was a deep and booming. “Don’t go outside at night lest you bring the goblins down on us all. Rest assured, you’ll be fed and watered and well-supplied when you leave.”

They ate better that night than they had since Rivendell: roasted deer that made grease run down into their beards, potatoes and carrots cooked in butter and rosemary, crusty bread slathered with honey. There were great pitchers of ale and sweet apple cider, too, and all of the food was spread out across the great table in bowls and platters so massive it took two of them to lift each one.

They ate with such enthusiasm that it made Beorn laugh out loud, none of them willing to slow down to allow for conversation. Gandalf attempted amused aloofness, but smoked his pipe and drank his cider with obvious pleasure. Bombur ate three times what should have been appropriate as a guest, and to Thorin’s shock Bilbo wasn’t far behind him. Dori seemed to share his surprise.

“How much can you possibly fit into that little body of yours, Master Baggins?” Dori asked, expression fluctuating between being dismayed and impressed. Dori himself had been attempting to show restraint throughout the entire meal, and had only partially succeeded. “You didn’t eat like this when we gathered in your hobbit hole, I’ll say that much.”

Mouth full of potatoes, Bilbo let out a choked noise of laughter. He swallowed hugely, practically glowing with pleasure at the meal in front of him.

“Just because hobbits don’t break into strangers’ pantries and eat them out of house and home doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate food,” he chastised, appearing to huff himself up into some kind of lecture – before groaning in pure bliss as another platter of honeyed bread was placed on the table. “It’s been _weeks_ since I’ve had honey,” said Bilbo reverently, plucking up another slice.

His eyes nearly rolled back into his head when he bit into it, and a helpless noise of pleasure escaped his throat at the taste. Thorin looked away hastily at the sound, steadfastly trying to ignore the look Balin gave him across the table.

Once they were all too full to even _consider_ eating more Gloin and Bifur helped to clear the plates away. Beorn asked Fili and Kili to help him prepare the beds, and the three of them spent a considerable amount of time gathering straw and woolen blankets to pile at one end of the hallway.

Spirits much improved from the hearty meal and the warmth of the fire blazing in the hearth, Thorin sat with Dwalin and Beorn at the great table long after the rest of them wandered over to the makeshift bed. They spoke of Mirkwood, which loomed so close to Beorn’s home; of approximate timelines for their stay, of what supplies they might need to take with them, of the best way to make it through the forest without catching the attention of the Elvenking.

When Beorn excused himself for a few minutes to tend to the fire, however, Thorin’s mind began to wander. His eyes were scouting around the hall for that tell-tale mop of curls before he even registered what he was looking for, eyes skimming over the grey shape of Gandalf dozing in the corner. When he did finally catch sight of Bilbo, however, it felt as though the bottom fell out of his stomach.

Bilbo and Bofur were huddled together in the hall’s far corner. Although they sat on top of the makeshift bed, the two of them sat a considerable distance from where the rest of the party was sleeping or quietly conversing. They were talking in whispers, leaning in close in a way that marked the conversation as distinctly private.

While Bofur’s face was obscured by the flaps of his hat, the anxiously intense expression on Bilbo’s face was enough to make something awful twist in Thorin’s gut. For a second, Bilbo glanced up in Thorin’s direction – before looking away again with such speed that it almost made Thorin feel physically _ill_.

He grunted when Dwalin elbowed him in the side, completely unable to tear his eyes off the pair of them.

“You’re a _king_ , Thorin,” said Dwalin insistently, seeming to know exactly what he was thinking. He could hear the scoff in Dwalin’s voice, as though Thorin’s foolishness was physically hurting him. “He’s a _toymaker_.”

The words were blunt, but there was no real contempt to them. Thorin knew that Dwalin had no disrespect for common folk: he had spent much of his life surrounded by warriors as the leader of Erebor’s guard, and was far more likely to judge a man by his strength in battle than by his profession.

Still, though, to him the choice was obvious: Thorin was a king, therefore he should get what he wanted. He might not have gold or gifts at the moment, but his position was so exponentially higher than Bofur’s that the mere promise of them should be enough to win Bilbo’s heart. In Dwalin’s mind, there was no real reason why Thorin shouldn’t use the full force of his rank to prove exactly who the halfling belonged to.

But Bilbo didn’t belong to him, no matter what Thorin might want. And the fact that Bofur was so open with his friendliness – that he could be so kindly and patient and _loving_ with everyone, as though something like that was _easy_ – made Thorin hate him just a little bit. Made him think that, toymaker or not, Bofur might have more to offer Bilbo than he ever could.

“Enough,” Thorin grunted as Beorn returned, and Dwalin sent him a pained expression before nodding.

They talked late into the night. Thorin drank steadily from his oversized mug, forcing himself not to look over at the corner until everyone but the three of them was sound asleep.

 

\--

 

The sound of footsteps crunching on straw was enough to send Thorin jerking out of sleep, eyes flying open and his sword hand tense just in case. Someone was moving across the makeshift bed, trying to be quiet but not quite succeeding, and Thorin couldn’t see them from his position. Adrenaline burst behind his eyes for a few moments, his heart pounding in his chest, before the footsteps stopped and a familiar voice began to whisper.

“Hey,” whispered Fili, his voice coming from somewhere off to his left, and Thorin would know that voice anywhere. The sun was barely risen, and Thorin’s tendency to jolt awake at the slightest noise had already resulted in him waking twice in the middle of the night: once at the sudden sound of dogs barking, and once at a great roar that had turned out to be nothing more than Beorn in his great bear form.

Fortunately, he also possessed a soldier’s ability to sleep anywhere at any time. He let himself relax, eyes falling closed again. 

There was a soft thumping sound, as though Fili was poking someone awake. “Hey, Bilbo!” he whispered, voice low but determined. “Wake up!”

 _That_ made Thorin wake up properly again. He stilled, eyes closed, listening to the exchange.

“Mmm?” came Bilbo’s voice, sleep-slurred and confused, and Thorin could practically see him in his mind’s eye; blankets pulled up over half his face with his legs curled up tight, rumpled curls barely peeking out. There were more shifting noises. “Whas’a’matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter,” said Fili softly, a grin in his voice. “Except that last night’s feast distracted us from an important daily ritual. Get up and get your sword. Kili and I will meet you outside.”

There was a quiet groan from Bilbo, which made the smallest smile tug at the corners of Thorin’s lips against his will. “It’s – _the sun isn’t even fully up yet_ ,” Bilbo hissed, sounding resigned but profoundly unimpressed. “It’s not decent.”

“Definitely not. See you outside!” Fili whispered cheerily, followed by the soft footsteps as he walked away. Bilbo grumbled quietly to himself, but the sound of rustling blankets and straw seemed to indicate that he was getting up anyways.

After he was gone, Thorin fell back to sleep with a smile still on his lips.

 

\--

 

Once the sun had risen a little higher in the air, however, there was no more excuse to stay sleeping.

After Thorin had eaten his fill from the enormous pot of porridge Beorn had left on the table, he decided that the morning would be best spent focusing on getting both himself and his attire clean. They would spend the afternoon parceling out supplies for their journey: at the moment he neither felt nor smelled particularly kingly, and it might be his last chance to properly rectify that for a long while.

He gathered the necessary supplies easily enough: a pair of light linen pants that Nori had somehow acquired and Thorin had cut short enough to fit, as well as a large wooden basin, a bar of soap, and a long length of rope from Beorn’s household. Once he had everything, Thorin passed the others in their various states of rest and conversation and headed outside to the stream.

It was a bright day, but the coolness of the air was a pleasant surprise against his skin after the long hours spent inside. There were signs of life everywhere: grey dogs wandering about the open space, birds in the trees, the shapes of the bee hives some distance away. Thorin walked through the tall grass, eyes trained on a large flat rock next to the stream’s edge. It would do nicely as a place to clean his clothes, and he would move on to one of the pools he’d seen earlier to clean himself once this was done.

Although there had been a time when washing his own clothes might have seemed unbecoming of his position, long years on the road and in the towns of men had made Thorin more than proficient at it. He dipped the basin into the running water of the stream, set it down by the rock, and then efficiently stripped his many heavy layers of clothing – fur cloak, outer robe, overshirt, trousers, underclothes as well as all of his assorted leather and chainmail –before slipping on the light linen trousers and getting to work.

There had been little opportunity for giving anything cloth a proper clean during the journey, and Thorin sat on the rock and ruthlessly used soap, water, and brute force to take out as much blood, dirt, and muck as possible.

It took over an hour and several basins of water before everything was decently scoured. It was a mindless task, but a useful one, and before long everything he owned was wrung out and hanging from the rope he had tied between two trees.

Soapy and cold and everything but his hands and arms still filthy, he headed back across the fields. The pools were easy enough to find: although they were located a little ways away from Beorn’s cabin, the large rocks surrounding them stood out from a great distance. The sounds of merriment and splashing drifted over from quite a distance, and as he approached he could see that Gloin, Nori, Dori, and Bifur were already submerged in the water.

As Thorin came even closer, the realization that there was steam rising from the water almost made him groan out loud. Bifur spotted him first, shouting a greeting in Khuzdul and making the others turn.

“Thorin!” cried Nori upon seeing him, looking quite unrecognizable with his hair out of its elaborate style. Instead, it was a wet mass of red around his shoulders. “Come in and join us, the water’s more than fine.”

“Hot springs,” said Thorin, barely managing to believe it. The steam rising from the water only did a little to obscure his companions’ nakedness, but he did not mind. Long years of living and fighting alongside his kin had made him utterly unselfconscious about nudity, whether it be his own or that of others. He shook his head. “I cannot recall the last time I enjoyed such a luxury.”

“Aren’t they divine?” sighed Dori, sinking down so that his ears just barely poked out. He looked happier than Thorin had seen him in a long while.

Without another thought, Thorin shucked the linen pants and stepped into the hot water. The heat of it was a shock against his skin, and his still-healing wounds stung the slightest bit at contact. He sunk right down until he was submerged up to his sternum, muscles practically singing with relief, taking a moment to duck his head underwater to ensure that his hair got properly wet. When he breached the surface he could barely hold back a sigh of pleasure. He breathed in deep through his nose, letting his eyes close, enjoying the damp heat of the air.

“Do any of you remember the public hot springs in Erebor?” came Gloin’s voice, sounding languorous and very much relaxed. “Now _that_ was a decent establishment.”

At the mention of Erebor as it used to be, Thorin felt something inside him tense up – but this was a good memory. It stung in the way that rubbing salve over a wound stings: still painful, but with the knowledge that it was working toward something worthwhile. Hearing his companions exchange memories of Erebor was fairly rare, and it made him even more determined to reclaim their home.

“The place by the rat-catcher’s shop?” asked Nori incredulously, and Thorin opened heavy eyes and raised an eyebrow. Dori and Nori had twin looks of scepticism on their faces.

At the other end of the pool, Gloin scowled dismissivly. “Not _that_ place, heavens. Little more than a hive of disease, and in _that_ neighbourhood. No, I mean the one by the old library. _Marvelous_ hot springs. My wife and I used to go there fairly regularly,” he said, sounding proud.

Across from him, Bifur snickered and made a comment about their Company being a congregation of tamed cats and sewer rats. Gloin looked a little abashed, but laughed along with everyone else.

They were still discussing the merits of Erebor’s former bathing houses when Thorin spotted three figures coming towards them, the one lagging behind decidedly shorter than the others. He swallowed heavily.

“Hot springs!” cried Kili in delight when they got a bit closer, a look of complete ecstasy on his sweaty face. He, Fili, and Bilbo all still had swords clutched in their hands, obviously having come straight from practice. Kili was already clumsily kicking off his boots and tugging at his jerkin, tossing his sword onto a patch of grass in his eagerness. “Oh, it’s been _ages_. I probably smell like a pony’s rear end right about now.”

“Charming as ever,” Fili laughed, but he was already unlacing his own tunic with a grin. Behind him, however, Bilbo was approaching with an increasingly pained expression on his face. Thorin’s eyes narrowed.

“Did you injure yourself during training?” he asked sharply, eyes scanning over the hobbit in an attempt to locate any scratches or cuts. Bilbo blinked, his gaze refocusing. He was pink-faced from sword practice.

“Pardon?” Bilbo asked vaguely, then gave his head a firm shake. He appeared to be attempting to look anywhere but at the dwarves in the water, gaze pointed unnecessarily high. This had the effect of making him address the words to a nearby tree instead of to Thorin himself. Thorin frowned, wondering if hot springs were uncommon in the Shire. “I –no. Not injured at all.” There was a beat. “I am getting rather hungry, though. Time for an early lunch, I think. I’ll just –”

The rest of his sentence was cut off by two loud groans as Fili and Kili waded into the water, twin looks of bliss on their faces.

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” sighed Fili, dunking his whole head underwater before shaking his hair out like a dog. Kili laughed in delight, and shortly the two of them were settling against the edges. “Bilbo, don’t be a curmudgeon! Your swordplay is coming along nicely; you deserve to give yourself a reward.”

The rest of the dwarves called out their agreement, beckoning Bilbo over. Thorin remained deliberately silent, lips pressed tight together. He tried very hard not to think about what Bilbo would look like unbuttoning his clothes, but his mind was already running slightly wild with the image.

Thorin had seen Bilbo in partial stages of undress over the course of their journey – it was hard not to, considering the close quarters they all shared on the road – but it would be nothing compared to seeing him stripped bare and soaking wet, the water warm against his skin. He wondered if his pale skin would turn pink from the heat of it. Thorin shifted uneasily at the thought, allowing himself to sink a bit lower into the water.

 “I’m fine, really,” Bilbo insisted, taking a step back. “Honestly. There are books in the hall I want to look at while there’s still light, and I can always come back a bit later –”

“Just your feet, then,” cajoled Kili, giving Bilbo a plaintiff look that he was almost too old to pull off. Thorin could remember that same expression on a much younger face. “Come _on_ , Bilbo. You walk around on those things all day without boots; they _must_ get sore. Just stay for a few minutes.”

“I...” Bilbo hesitated, mouth twisted up and face rumpled with some unknown emotion. “All right, yes, fine,” he finally conceded, sounding pained. Nori and Bifur both cheered, and Kili let out a little shout of victory. Thorin shoved away the twinge of disappointment at not seeing Bilbo undressed, feeling ashamed of himself for even thinking about it.  

There was a pause as Bilbo rolled up his trousers even higher, fussily making sure they were both the same length. Thorin felt his gaze lowering to land on Bilbo’s feet, large and covered in a great deal of light-coloured hair. He couldn’t help but wonder if they were ticklish, or if constant exposure made the soles too thick to feel much. He wondered if Bilbo enjoyed people touching them, or if touching a hobbit’s feet was somehow taboo.

Finally, Bilbo sat himself down in between Gloin and Nori. He dipped his feet in cautiously, but the little exhale of pleasure he let out when they were all the way underwater had Fili and Kili practically beaming. Thorin felt a smile tugging at his own lips, as well. They all sat for a little while, enjoying the soothing heat.

“What books are you eager to read, Mister Bilbo?” asked Dori after a moment. At Bilbo’s blank look, he elaborated. “The ones in the hall you want to take a look at?”

“Oh!” said Bilbo, giving a little shrug. He swished his feet back and forth in the water as he spoke. “Beorn’s library is small and his books are... rather oversized, but there are a few interesting ones about gardening and geography I was hoping to look at. They’re mostly in the common tongue or Elvish, which is nice.”

All at once, Thorin felt badly wrong-footed. “You read Elvish?” he asked, surprise and displeasure welling up hard within him. He imagined Bilbo tucked up in Bag-End, eagerly learning that squiggly mess of an alphabet. The thought made him feel profoundly irritated.

Bilbo frowned, a wrinkle appearing on his forehead. “I do,” he said, sounding cautious.

“Do _all_ hobbits read Elvish?” Thorin asked insistently, to which Bilbo shook his head.

“Hardly any, no. Most of them don’t see the point.”

“There isn’t one,” said Thorin conclusively, feeling rather smug, to which Bilbo let out an indignant little splutter.

“There most certainly _is_ a point,” Bilbo persisted, demeanour taking on the tone of someone who had had this debate many times before. Thorin thought he heard Kili smother a giggle, but he couldn’t be sure. “Rivendell is close to the Shire, I’ll have you remember. There are all sorts of practical reasons that one might learn the language, and I know I always thought of going there. My Elvish might not be perfect, but –”

“If you could keep learning it now, would you?” Thorin demanded, the irrational anger swelling up even greater inside him. Bilbo gave him an obstinate look in response, straightening his back and throwing back his shoulders.

“I most certainly would,” said Bilbo, to which Thorin threw up his arms in frustration. The movement sent water droplets flying.

“That’s ridiculous, though!” Thorin snarled, the idea of a younger Bilbo all aflutter to go to _Rivendell_ and _meet the elves_ so foul it almost made him feel physically sick. “Why would you waste all that time and energy when you could be learning Khuzdul instead?”

And that idea – of Bilbo learning Khuzdul, _speaking_ Khuzdul – was so perfect that Thorin was shocked he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Once they reclaimed the Lonely Mountain, trying to keep Bilbo in a place where he didn’t even speak the main language would surely be a fool’s task. If he could speak Khuzdul, Bilbo would be able to preside over infinitely more tasks in the reconstruction: it would show respect for their culture, and his knowledge of the language would be another tie to bind them together. It would be better than _Elvish_ , he thought sourly, stomach churning at the thought.

Bolstering himself, Thorin fully expected another rapid-fire contestation; for the question to get Bilbo more worked up than ever. He almost _wanted_ a fight, to have a reason to pay attention to Bilbo other than the damnable thoughts he couldn’t speak out loud.

It seemed to have the complete opposite effect, however. Instead of growing more upset, Bilbo sat with his mouth slightly agape as he blinked in surprise. Around them, none of the other dwarves spoke. There was complete silence for a few long, still moments.

“... Khuzdul is a secret language,” said Bilbo eventually, sounding uncertain. Thorin snorted.

“For dwarves and their closest allies, yes. Do you think me a simpleton?” He scoffed, giving Bilbo a hard look. “You did not answer my question.”

For the first time since arriving at the hot springs, Bilbo lowered his gaze and looked Thorin straight in the eyes. Thorin looked right back, prepared to clash over the issue indefinitely if necessary. After a long pause, however, Bilbo actually _nodded_.

“All right,” he said simply, the expression on his face unreadable. He gave a little shrug. “Khuzdul it is, then.”

Astonished at the easy victory, Thorin blinked. Around them, everyone else was being so steadfastly silent that the lack of noise rang loudly in the air. “You don’t intend to fight me about this?”

There was the briefest of pauses before Bilbo cocked his head to one side, all of the fight seeming to have leached out of him. “No,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“Good,” said Thorin unnecessarily, eyebrows furrowing. Pent-up energy was buzzing inside of him, ready to be unleashed, but there didn’t seem much else to say. “I’ll instruct Ori to begin giving you lessons in both spoken aglâb and cirth script, as well the basics of iglishmêk. That should suffice for a start.”

“All right,” said Bilbo after a second, before pausing. No one else spoke. Instead of upset, however, Bilbo seemed quietly thoughtful. “I’m... going to go back to the hall now, I think,” he said, scooting back and slowly standing. His feet left little twin puddles of water on the rock. He hesitated. “Thank you for the soak.”

“You’re welcome,” said Thorin, the words awkward and stilted, even though he had done nothing in particular to earn Bilbo’s thanks.

His companions wished the halfling farewell before returning to their conversation, their words somehow more reserved than before, but Thorin didn’t join them. Instead, he watched as Bilbo turned and walked back toward Beorn’s home, growing smaller and smaller as he walked further away.

But there were supplies to be arranged and routes through Mirkwood to debate, and he didn’t have time to puzzle over such strange behaviour. Thorin excused himself before long as well, determined to focus on the matter at hand.

He had to try very hard indeed to get that unknowable expression out of his mind.  

 


	4. Into Mirkwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience with this fic! It's been a very busy time for me with school and work, but it seems like I'm finally starting to have free time to write again. Thank you to everyone who sent lovely messages asking when this chapter would be coming and encouraging me to take the time I needed; your continued interest truly means a lot to me! (As always, updates and general flailings are available at emilianadarling.tumblr.com)

His hair still damp and his skin scrubbed cleaner than it had been since Rivendell, Thorin arrived back at Beorn’s hall in the late afternoon with his back uncomfortably straight and a churning tension in his stomach. He was prepared for discomfort between himself and Bilbo, or at the very least some kind of acknowledgement of their confrontation.

It never came. Tucked away in a corner with a small pile of very large books on the ground next to him, Bilbo glanced up as soon as Thorin entered the hall. He had a battered, oversized book propped up in front of him; it was leather-bound, with _The Geography and History of Esgaroth_ embossed in faded common tongue letters across the cover. Thorin held his breath – but Bilbo just smiled at him, small and sheepish, from across the room. For a long moment, Thorin hesitated.

Eventually he gave a quick nod in response, turned on his heel, and hasted away to talk to Balin about grain supplies for their journey.

Even if Thorin lived another hundred years, he did not think he would ever understand halflings. They were ridiculous little creatures, he decided, getting upset when there was no good reason and seeming perfectly content when they should have been upset. There was no point in trying to talk sense into them. It was altogether less confusing to sit with Balin and Dwalin, preparing heavy sacks of wheat and barley and conversing lightly about the road ahead of them. 

When his mind began to drift, it occurred to him to wonder if _this_ was something Bilbo might want once they reclaimed the mountain. An endless room full of shelves and shelves of books, all of them tucked away and private and for him Bilbo alone to enjoy. Books with gold embossing and jewels encrusted into their spines; books that were so rare and fragile they would enough gold to buy the entire Shire. Books with delicate pages and ancient illustrations, crinkled scrolls wrapped in silver-tipped cord and original manuscripts older than Erebor itself – and all of them gathered together in the simple hope that maybe – _maybe_ – Bilbo would deign to read them one day. Khuzdul and common tongue alike, all laid out for Bilbo’s taking.

Thorin wondered exactly how many books Beorn had that were written in the common tongue, and how long Bilbo might be entertained by them before he lost interest and moved on to the Elvish texts.

After about half an hour of silent agonizing, Thorin stood without a word and stomped off in search of Ori. He found him curled up in an overlarge chair, a knitted blanket wrapped around his shoulders as he scratched out letters into some kind of journal, and brusquely asked him to begin Bilbo’s lessons in khuzdul before the night was over. Better to start Bilbo early than to let him go bored, Thorin decided with satisfaction, nodding curtly when Ori stammered out an affirmative before marching back purposefully to the storage house.

“Everything all right, laddie?” asked Balin wryly, raising his white eyebrows and levelling Thorin with a look just edging on unconcealed mockery. 

“Quite,” Thorin replied immediately, settling back into his task with a smug smile and rather more enthusiasm than before.

 

\--

The night before they departed from Beorn’s hall, Kili and Fili came to the conclusion that it was high time to put Bilbo’s fledgling sword fighting skills on proper display. There was no announcement of this decision, no planned time or place. In fact, those of them spending the afternoon resting in the dining hall only found out about it on account of the way Dori came bursting through the side entrance in a flurry of excitement and gesticulating hands.  

“Mister Bilbo and the lads are _duelling_!” he squeaked, his eyes shining bright and his thinly-braided beard swinging around in excitement.

For a single horrible moment it felt as though Thorin’s heart had stopped in his chest – before the eager woops of anticipation rang out around him and his mind moved from thoughtless panic into the most rational reason for such a duel.

“A display!” roared Dwalin, seeming to echo Thorin’s inner thoughts out loud. He shoved his plate of cheese and bread aside, feet hitting the ground with a loud thump as he stood. “About time!”

“Oh, for _heaven’s sake_ ,” said Gandalf, but the twinkle in his eyes and the reluctant smile twitching in his beard hinted at a very different sentiment. For once, Thorin knew how he felt. Exhilaration and trepidation and fierce protectiveness seemed to burst and crackle in his chest as he imagined Bilbo actually _fighting_ , using his little sword to protect himself and fend off an attacker.

It didn’t matter that it was only for the sake of instruction, and the others were all starved for entertainment. It only took a few moments before all of them – even Gandalf – were hastily following Dori out the door.

After only a few minutes of darting through Beorn’s garden it became apparent exactly where the mock-duel was taking place. Dori led them toward the edge of Beorn’s lands, heading towards the stream where many of them had washed their clothes over the past few days. The rest of the company were already gathered together, and their shouts of encouragement became louder and louder as Thorin grew nearer.

Once they crested the hill, Thorin could finally see them. Bilbo and Kili were circling one another in a large swathe of pebbled ground alongside the great stream, swords drawn but not actually duelling yet. The rest of the company was gathered on a cluster of smooth rocks and stones that served as makeshift seating. Fili was perched cross-legged on a large boulder only a few feet from where Bilbo and his brother circled one another, watching them with calm eyes and an instructor’s attention.

They joined the rest of the company quickly enough, all of them squishing together to watch the lesson in action. Gandalf seemed content to stand, leaning on his staff and observing everything with some combination of amusement and deadly seriousness. A few of the dwarves moves off of a larger rock near the front and Thorin took the seat without question, his eyes fixed on his nephew and his hobbit circling one another like hawks. The noise was like a physical presence all around him, the dozen of them making enough noise twice their numbers as they shouted and stomped in anticipation.

Apparently, Kili had noticed when the rest of the company had arrived to watch. He shot Thorin a roguish grin, taking his eyes off Bilbo for only a second before turning back and steeling himself for the fight to begin.

Thorin stared, allowing his eyes to roam over Bilbo unashamedly. He took in Bilbo’s grip on the elven sword, the straightness of his back, the way he seemed to be completely deaf to any of the cajoling comments from the crowd. He had stripped off his waistcoat and jacket, and was wearing his light linen shirt with a leather tunic that Ori – one of the smallest of the company – had lent him to wear overtop in order to at least provide some protection against injury. Thorin remembered that they had attempted to lend him a pair of leather gloves, too, but that every pair the company owned had slipped right off his fingers.

 “Come on, Bilbo!” Kili called out merrily, his broadsword still raised and ready in front of him. He gave it an goading swipe through the air. There was an eager smile on his face, and his loose dark hair had been pulled back and tied with a leather cord. He resettled his feet, eyes locked on Bilbo. “Charge at me.”

“I’d really rather not,” Bilbo called back, but the comment seemed to be more of a wry jest than a serious protest.  Everyone laughed, but Thorin just leaned in closer. Even as the two of them circled one another, Bilbo seemed to be making a conscious effort to correct his own sword grip without ever taking his eyes off his opponent.

“Aim for his sides!” Gloin bellowed from the sidelines, making a violent slashing gesture with both hands. “You won’t be able to get ‘im in the neck, burglar, you’re too tiny. The sides!”

“Are you _mad_?” asked Nori in horror, giving Gloin a horrible side-eye. “The _si_ – no. No, Bilbo, catch him off guard and get him in the back, they never see that coming.”

“Where did either of you learn how to wield a sword?” asked Balin in disdain, shaking his head with a long-suffering air that only the very old and very wise could truly muster. “Go for the heart, laddie!”

“Remember your stance,” Fili called out from the sidelines, his voice kind but firm. Bilbo gave an infinitesimal nod, and it seemed to Thorin that Bilbo had very wisely chosen to focus on his and Kili’s voices only. “Move your feet, too; your enemy will not stay in one place, so why should you?” 

Bilbo nodded again, still not taking his eyes off Kili in front of him, and Thorin – who was seated at the very front of the group, and had thus far been the only one among them to remain silent – felt something close to pride flicker in his chest.

A few beads of sweat were beading along Bilbo’s forehead from the heat, and Thorin hesitated before allowing his gaze to trail down over the curve of his neck. With the sleeves of his linen undershirt rolled up and the laces of the leather jerkin slightly undone, Bilbo was edging on outright _obscene_. He bit his lip and gave his head a little shake to the thought away.  

 “The shins!” screamed Ori, working himself up into an excited mess and simultaneously startling Thorin out of his reverie. “Slash him in the shins!”

“The sins?” asked Oin in puzzlement. He jabbed a finger into his ear and twisted it around, looking confused but still in good spirits.

“Whatever you do, Bilbo, stab that ridiculous smile off his face,” said Bofur easily, lounging back against the rocks with a contented air about him. “I’m getting hungry, I am.”

“No one is stabbing anyone until he actually charges me,” said Kili, turning ever-so-slightly to shoot a grin at the group on the rocks – and in that tiny moment of distraction, Bilbo darted forward.

Bilbo moved quickly, swinging his little sword in an upward arc, making the best of the small opening in a way that made Thorin want to bellow with delight. Kili flinched, clearly thrown off guard by his pupil’s surprise attack, but not enough to make him fumble his defence. He raised his broadsword in plenty of time to catch the Bilbo’s blade, the _clang_ of metal against metal reverberating harshly in the air. Around Thorin, the other dwarves cheered and hollered noisily as Kili responded with a counterstroke. The two of them weren’t moving at full speed – Bilbo wasn’t quite ready for that yet, and Kili was still leading their fights at a reduced tempo – but they moved quickly enough to give the entire affair tension.

Kili was laughing and grinning as he swung, clearly both enjoying himself and pleasantly surprised at the unexpected charge. Bilbo’s dodges and parries were good, Thorin noted, but the moments where his and Kili’s blades clashed revealed Bilbo’s inferior strength.

“We dwarves know well that our size can be seen as a detriment in battle,” Fili lectured from his vantage point, speaking loudly to be heard over the sound of sword against sword and carefully watching Bilbo’s every move. “Because of our stature, there is sometimes the assumption that we cannot hold our own. This is untrue.”

Abruptly, Kili’s broadsword crashed against Bilbo’s blade with enough force to send him stumbling back a few paces with a cry of surprise. Around him, the rest of the dwarves let out a loud groan. Thorin tensed, but Bilbo recovered – not quickly enough, however, to defend himself very well against Kili’s renewed onslaught.

 “Dwarves are strong despite our size!” Fili called, meriting the most unimpressed look that Bilbo seemed to be able to muster while being enthusiastically attacked by a dwarf. “We’re hard and compact, and can take down enemies twice our size through brute force alone.”

“Yes – yes, I am very aware of that, thank you,” Bilbo grunted tersely, not taking his eyes off Kili but almost stumbling nonetheless.

Fili raised an eyebrow, leaning forward and leaning on interlaced fingers as he watched his brother and friend fight. “He’s bigger than you, he’s stronger than you. Think, Bilbo! How can you defeat him?”

Kili had Bilbo on the retreat, now, attacking him with a variety of quick jabs and swipes with enough force behind them that Bilbo’s arms seemed to shake with the effort of keeping his sword up. It almost looked as though the fight was going to be over very soon, and Thorin winced and instinctively fingered Orcrist’s hilt as Bilbo let out a cry of pain as he half-stumbled back. Fili would call the fight soon, Thorin decided, his gaze never wavering.

All at once, however, Bilbo seemed to experience some kind of revelation. He tensed for one long, heart-wrenching moment – before countering Kili with a hard and fast swing to the left. But as Kili moved to instinctively counter it, Thorin realized that Bilbo’s attack had been nothing more than a feign: as soon as Kili’s attention was diverted, Bilbo changed course. He darted right, flinging himself to the rocky ground only to _squeeze through the space between Kili’s legs,_ quickly get to his feet, and attack afresh from the other side. The dwarves were _screaming_ with delight now, and Kili seemed caught off guard for a good few moments before he spun around and just barely managed to catch Bilbo’s stroke.

“ _Yes_!” Fili roared, thrusting his fist in the air in victory. “ _Speed_!  You’re faster than any of us, Bilbo, and lighter on your feet to boot. You can out-maneuver almost any enemy you meet.”

“Get ‘im, burglar!” Dwalin roared, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

“Lovely job, Bilbo!” hollered Bofur happily.

The fight ended only a minute or two later with Bilbo sprawled on his back on the ground and Kili’s blade mock-pushed against his neck. Everyone clapped and whooped despite the loss, and even though Bilbo had failed to match a few of Kili’s attacks near the end everyone seemed to consider the lesson a marvellous success.

Far from being disappointed at the loss, Bilbo laughed happily when Kili took his hand and easily tugged him to his feet, allowing Kili to pull him into a quick brotherly embrace once they were both standing. Fili jumped down from his rock and joined them quickly enough, congratulating them both loudly on a wonderful practice match.

Thorin didn’t move as everyone rushed to stand around him, feeling very much as though his heart was caught in his throat. The other dwarves were moving in to congratulate Bilbo and Kili, all chattering and acting out the most exciting parts, but all of it seemed to be nothing but white noise in Thorin’s ears.

Bilbo’s curls were slick with sweat and he was panting heavily, sword arm shaking and a look of utter joy on his face. His face was blotchy and red with exertion, and his knuckles and forearms seemed to be boasting several new scratches and scuffs. There was a ragged tear in his linen shirt that had once been so fine and proper, and his face seemed smooth and young with happiness. His eyes crinkled at the edges, and he looked as though he was shaking from the rush of it all.

Thorin didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more lovely in his life.

He felt his body standing seemingly without his permission, heading over to where Bilbo stood next to his nephews wearing a grin so bright it seemed to light up the world.

“You fought well,” Thorin murmured once he was only a foot or so away, his voice soft but clear, and Bilbo startled visibly at his voice. He turned and looked up at Thorin in surprise, eyes wide but very pleased, and Thorin reached forward to give his shoulder a firm squeeze. “You were quite a sight to see.”

Bilbo glanced at Thorin’s hand on his shoulder, paused – before laughing with either the after-shakes or exhaustion, relaxing into the touch. “Thank you,” he said, and it was as though there had never been any tension between them. He reached up to rub some of the sweat from his eyes. “It was – quite, yes. I mean...” He paused for a moment, seemingly at a loss for words, before giving a breathy laugh. “I haven’t felt that way before, really. Like I almost knew what I was doing during a fight. It was... rather nice, I think.”

Thorin smiled, remembering the first time he felt that way during his own weapons lessons with Balin as a young man. He could feel the connection between them, then, with Bilbo beaming up at him with sweat dripping down his face and his sword still clutched in his hand. It almost felt like a palpable entity, the energy buzzing between them. Despite their different lives, this was something they shared that could not so easily be taken away.

His nephews were gone; they had likely wandered off to be congratulated by the amassed dwarves on their excellent teaching techniques. The sound of everyone’s excited chattering was nothing but noise in Thorin’s ears.

“Are you hurt?” asked Thorin, gesturing to Bilbo’s hands. For a moment, Bilbo blinked uncomprehendingly at him – before raising his hands to his eyes to examine them for himself.

“Oh,” he said quietly, seeming surprised at the little nicks and abrasions his fingers and knuckles. “Oh, they should be fine. I’ll give them a clean and rub a salve on them tonight.” He giggled, sounding slightly euphoric. “Still learning, still getting nicks and scrapes.”

Smiling, Thorin opened his mouth – the words _you will be quite a capable swordsman one day, my nephews assure me_ on the tip of his tongue – before a brown blur rushed past him and charged right into Bilbo head-on.

“Well _done_!” Bofur roared, plucking Bilbo easily off the ground and spinning him around in a little half circle. Bilbo squawked in outrage, smacking Bofur uselessly on the back, laughing and yelling before the two of them tumbled to the ground in a flurry of laughter and flailing limbs.  

Dwalin sent him a look and Thorin looked away quickly, trying to cling to the elation and pride that had been singing in his chest a few moments before. Something painful twinged in his chest, but at least this time it did not feel debilitating in its hurt.

 _One day,_ he thought determinedly, wrenching his eyes away to congratulate Kili and Fili on their excellent instruction. _One day I will give everything I can to you, too_.

 

 

\--

They left Beorn’s hall the next morning, packs laden to the brim with supplies and their clothes scrubbed cleaner than they’d been in many a week. Unlike their flight from Rivendell, however, it was an amicable parting. Beorn accompanied them until they reached the great wooden gates that surrounded his lands, at which point he and Thorin exchanged a formal farewell. Thorin’s thanks for allowing them to stay in his home were heartfelt and real, and when Beorn kneeled down to give him a pat on the shoulder that nearly sent Thorin tumbling to the ground it was obvious that his whiskery smile was genuine.

The opportunity to rest properly had done the entire company good. Well-slept and properly fed for the first time in months, the prospect of Mirkwood did not seem nearly as daunting as it had a few days ago. The sun shone brightly in the mid-morning sky as they walked away from Beorn’s hall, all of them chatting and laughing amongst themselves. Even Thorin, who felt the heavy weight of uncertainty over the prospect of their long journey through Mirkwood, could not help but feel that today was a day of new beginnings.

Gandalf’s departure several hours later, however, came as a somewhat more jarring and unpleasant turn of events.

“You’re _leaving_?” asked Kili in disbelief, staring at Gandalf as though he had grown a second head. Bombur looked dumbstruck and Dwalin looked furious, and all at once the quiet cheer of the morning was gone as though it had never existed.  Fili put a hand on his brother’s arm, but he too stared pointedly at Gandalf as though expecting an explanation. A few feet away, Bilbo opened his mouth as if to say something – before closing it quickly again, looking pointedly away from Gandalf with some kind of emotion burning strong and hot in his eyes.

Pulling himself up to his full height, Kili looked half outraged and half extremely young. For a moment all Thorin could think about was the child he used to be; how shocked and outraged Kili had always been whenever something struck him as being _unfair_.  “You’re supposed to be helping us reclaim our home!”

Thorin closed his eyes for a long moment, mentally chastising himself for not anticipating this turn of events. They had all grown overly comfortable at Beorn’s hall, allowing the urgency of their situation to slip from their minds. When Thorin opened his eyes, Gandalf had a few of his knobbly fingers pressed against his temple as though overwhelmed with their collective idiocy.

“I have promised to help you reclaim your home, Master Kili, and you can rest assured that I fully intend to do so,” said Gandalf, the words somehow brusque and apologetic all at once. “But all of you have forgotten that the quest for Erebor is no longer our only concern.”

“The Necromancer,” said Thorin, voice low and serious, and Gandalf looked at him in sharp surprise. The novelty of Thorin actually agreeing with him instead of blistering with impotent anger seemed to fade away quickly, though, and after a moment he nodded.

“There is a great evil rising,” said Gandalf quietly, his eyes growing distant and ever more troubled.  Thorin could not help but feel that this Gandalf was somehow profoundly different from the gruff and whimsical old man who had shared their table in Hobbiton all those months ago. This was a warier Gandalf; one who was decidedly more worn around the edges. “I can _feel_ it. I must do some investigating and inquiring of my own.”  He smiled, but there did not seem to be any joy in it at all. “Otherwise Erebor might not be the only home we have to reclaim.”

Thorin nodded solemnly, his composure only wavering briefly when he glanced over at Bilbo and met his gaze. Bilbo’s eyes were worried, yes – but there was also a firm resolve there that made Thorin shiver to behold it. It was a small thing, but it nonetheless sent a hot shiver up his spine.

Letting out a sigh, Gandalf looked over the group of them one last time. He seemed fond and apprehensive and determined all at once, and Thorin noticed that he shared a long look with Bilbo that almost looked _apologetic_. Thorin wanted to assure him that he had nothing to worry about; that he would keep Bilbo safe at any cost, that even if Thorin and all the company fell for the sake of this quest he would spend his last moments making sure that Bilbo _kept on breathing_.

There was no way to say any of that out loud, however, so Thorin merely nodded in hardened understanding when Gandalf’s gaze met his own.

And then, without any real words of farewell, Gandalf was turning around in a flurry of grey robes and marching determinedly across a great grassy field.

“Stay on the path!” he called back to them, not bothering to pause or turn around as he spoke. “And don’t get yourselves killed before I can make my way back to you!”

He disappeared into the trees a moment later, the company staring at the spot where he vanished without speaking. After a few long moments Thorin ushered them on, dragging his own eyes away and shouting at them to get a move on before they lost the day’s light. He pointedly placed a hand on the small of Bilbo’s back and guided him forcefully forward when the hobbit seemed inclined to linger, ignoring the shiver of sadness that ran through his small body when Thorin did so.

It would be another two days before they reached the edge of the forest. Thorin led them along, steadfastly not turning around to look back.

 

\--

In the first few days of their journey into Mirkwood, the trees were spaced widely enough that sunlight continued to filter in through their twisted branches. At night the moon and stars would peek through, glimmering through gnarled bark and dark leaves and making sure they never fell into total darkness. The path was narrow and cramped, but small black squirrels scurried along the undergrowth and provided enough fresh meat that none of them felt particularly hard done-by. They sang in the evenings and chatted in the daytime, and Thorin began to suspect that the stories about the endless labyrinth of unbroken darkness and danger had been somewhat exaggerated.

The trees grew closer and closer together as they travelled deeper, and by a week the sky had completely disappeared from above them. Day became as dark as the night, any kind of small game became more and more rare, and the little streams and ponds that had been so common at first seemed to disappear altogether.

Two weeks into Mirkwood and the cobwebs started to appear. Thick, viscous things that stretched between trees, and they had to physically hack through them in order to continue along the path. Crumbling skeletons of small animals and things that once may have been men dangled from them, sometimes rattling when they passed, and low growls and moans began to emanate from the pitch dark of the woods around them. Conversation began to slow, all of them walking in a long line with only the light of a single torch to guide them and camping uncomfortably close together.

Four weeks into Mirkwood and their water supplies began to dwindle.  Thorin cursed them all for their stupidity and began rationing drinking water more carefully, all of them limited to a couple of mouthfuls a few times a day. Exhaustion weighed heavily on all their shoulders, mouths dry as a bone and growing weaker and weaker by the day, and it was almost a guilty relief when one of their supply bags went missing in the night. It was hard enough to carry themselves and their weapons, and the grain had been too heavy for most of them to bear.

After days of ruthlessly pushing the thought aside, Thorin began to reluctantly consider the possibility that their journey might end here before they could even _try_ to reclaim their home. That they would all be snuffed out like flickering candles in the dark; that he would die penniless and broken, never even knowing whether they could have won back the mountain. Never even knowing what Bilbo’s lips tasted like. He had never thought it would end like this, with Bombur’s shirt and coat hanging loosely over his shoulders and Fili barely able to drag both his swords behind him in his exhaustion. They barely spoke at all anymore, and Bilbo was more silent than most. He walked as though in a trance most days, stumbling on his feet with his eyes filmy and deadened to the world.

Thorin made sure to eat and drink less than all of them, pushing ahead with a pale memory of the determination he vaguely remembered having once upon a time when sunlight came from the sky and there was always, always something to eat.  

Six weeks into Mirkwood and hunger and thirst were their constant companions, clawing at their insides and making their throats raw. It became harder and harder to hack through the cobwebs. Their energy dried up like a desert, and even false bravado seemed impossible to muster. The darkness seemed to pulse and twist around them, and Thorin reeled and sagged and thought that madness might just take them all before thirst did.

It was only when the path began to disappear entirely and the _click-click-click_ of pincers in the dark reached their ears, however, that the true immediacy of their deaths sank in.   


	5. The Woodland Realm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who is still following this fic after such a long hiatus; thank you so very much for your patience. It's been a tough year for me, but a reduction in real-life stress and the premier of _Desolation_ have combined to reinvigorate my love for this story and motivate me to get properly back into fandom. I'm writing like a madwoman, and the final chapter should be posted within a week or two. 
> 
> Again, thank you so much to those who still have any interest in this fic. I still love this story so much, and I'm so delighted that I'm finally able to return to it. Now that real life has calmed down a bit, I will also be much more available to answer any questions (or for general flailing) on my tumblr at emilianadarling.tumblr.com.
> 
> This story was outlined long before _The Desolation of Smaug_ came out, although some details from the second film have certainly creeped in during the writing process. As such, it only follows film canon closely until the end of _An Unexpected Journey_.

 

\--

All of them froze as the sounds grew closer and closer; tree branches snapping, the skittering of giant legs, the sickening _click-click-click_ of pincers ringing out loud and clear in the darkness. His eyes were still fixed firmly on the ground, on the place where he had been desperately, _desperately_ trying to make out the path. Thorin felt the slow, dull horror crawl up his spine before it settled heavily in the pit of his stomach. After a few long moments he raised his gaze to look at his companions, slow-witted and bone-tired and still unwilling to acknowledge the reality of their situation.

There was enough light for him to see that all of the faces around him were pale and sagging with exhaustion, that every single one of his companions had gone rigid with fear and dread. Understanding dawned slowly. No one spoke, no one moved. No one reached for a weapon.

With a frantic jolt that made his stomach sink and his hands shake, Thorin’s eyes darted over to Bilbo. The hobbit was only standing a few feet away, standing and staring at the surrounding trees with eyes that looked even wider for how much he had wasted away as their food supplies dwindled. In the past few weeks, Bilbo had lost the softness that had clung to his middle for as long as Thorin had known him. His curls were lank, and his mouth was a tight line. His hand was wrapped around his little elven dagger so hard his knuckles were turning white.

He looked so very small, like this. As though he had been taken over by a fear that was so much larger than he was.

It made Thorin feel so powerless that he could barely _breathe_.

Next to him, Dwalin turned his head and caught Thorin’s eyes. There was a moment of unspoken acknowledgement that passed between them like a whisper, an acceptance of the truth that they could not avoid. Thorin’s throat felt thick as he nodded, just once, and Dwalin nodded roughly in return.

There was no way they could survive a fight with the forest’s monsters, not like this. Not weak as babes and with their heads pounding with thirst, so dizzy that they were barely able to stand.

This was the end of their journey.

Thorin reached for his sword.

“Stand and fight!” he cried, drawing his sword. His voice sounded rough and scraped raw to his own ears, but he knew that his conviction was as firm and solid as the foundations of mountains. With a flicker of shattered pride, he saw that Fili and Kili were the first to respond to his rallying call. They moved so that they were standing back to back, drawing their own weapons with shaking hands. The noises in the woods were louder, getting closer. “Stand and fight!”

Everyone was moving now, all of them clutching at swords and trying to drag themselves to their feet, forming a rough circle in an attempt to leave no one’s back unguarded. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin saw Bombur helping Bofur to his feet, saw Dori placing a hand on Ori’s shaking shoulder. He saw Fili edge closer to his brother and Thorin knew – he just _knew_ – what he was thinking. It was too dark for Kili to use his bow with any accuracy, and he had always been worse with hand-to-hand weapons. From the look of grim determination on Fili’s face, Thorin knew that his nephew would fall giving his brother a fighting chance.

 _I’m so sorry, Dis,_ thought Thorin, before stepping forward and roughly grabbing Bilbo by the shoulder. He let out a little cry of surprise as Thorin yanked him back from where he had been attempting to join their defensive circle, forcefully moving him so that he was effectively standing in the centre. So that Thorin was standing in front of him, sword raised in the air. The _click-click-click_ of pincers in the dark was so loud now that it was almost deafening. _I’m so sorry._

Because his nephews were young, and they were only here because they had placed their trust in him. But they were also trained warriors. He was not their only chance of survival, their only chance for a good death.

Thorin would do everything in his power to keep Bilbo Baggins alive and unharmed for as long as possible – and to end his suffering, if it came to that.

When the spiders finally burst out of the trees, it was like something out of a nightmare. The screeches they let out were inhuman as they threw themselves at the company from every angle, their legs grotesquely long and their fanged maws gaping wide and dribbling clear liquid. Thorin let out a wordless cry and thrust his sword forward, feeling the squelching crunch as he drove the blade into a spider’s head before the battle blindness took over. After that, all he could feel was the pounding of his heart and the rushing intensity around them as they all tried to keep the creatures from breaching the circle for as long as possible.

Time lost all meaning after that, the whole world narrowing down to the cut of his sword and the search for the next enemy and _Bilbo, Bilbo, where is Bilbo, cannot let him out of your sight_. There were noises around him – screams and screeching howls, the pounding of feet and the clacking of pincers – but they existed in a world without meaning. Thorin’s chest ached and he thought his sword handle felt slippery in his hands, but there was no way to tell whether it was from sweat or blood or something even fouler. He severed the legs from a spider that had flung Balin against a tree, sliced open the one that tried to snare Bilbo in its web. When Thorin himself became pinned to the ground, Bifur skewered the spider on top of him with a single thrust.

And then a swiping cut across a spider’s head sent a jet of putrid yellow pus right into Thorin’s face. It blinded him, left him disoriented and scrubbing at his eyes for a few precious moments until he was able to see clearly again. But when he spun around to make sure that Bilbo was still safe behind him, there was only empty space where he had stood.

 _No_ , he thought, unadulterated panic clawing at the insides of his mind. _No, no, NO_.

Reeling, Thorin scanned the mess of dwarves and spiders in front of him, hoping wishing _praying_ that he would catch a glimpse of curls, a hint of maroon coat. He could not think – could not _breathe_ , could barely even register that everyone still seemed to be on their feet and holding strong. He could only keep looking, eyes flitting frantically over every shape until –

 _There_. 

Across the clearing, partially hidden behind Gloin and Nori taking on a particularly massive monster on their own, was Bilbo. His little sword was raised in the air, fending off a great brown spider all by himself, and Thorin noticed absently that he was holding his own shockingly well. Thorin started running anyways, shoving friend and foe alike out of the way as he threw himself across the clearing. He saw Bilbo stab his sword up into the spider’s head, heard it screech with pain as the yellow pus spilled out of the wound. Saw Bilbo collapse onto his knees, breathing hard.

Between one second and the next, however, Thorin blinked – and Bilbo was gone.

Just… _gone_ , no sign of a body  or an escape, and Thorin came to a crashing halt beside the brown spider’s corpse, frenzied confusion making him spin around in a desperate attempt to find out where Bilbo could have gone. He wasn’t _anywhere_ , and the burst of hysterical loss that hit Thorin in the chest at that moment was so strong that he barely noticed three smaller spiders burst out of the forest beside him. It was all Thorin could do to keep himself from being snared in their strong, sticky webbing, all three of them working in tandem until he cut them all down.

The world around them was growing whiter and whiter and they were fighting well, fighting hard, and as far as he knew none of their number was dead, that _Bilbo_ was not dead, but he did not know, could not _know_ –

— and then _pain_ exploded in Thorin’s left shoulder as though lightning had struck him there, searing through his whole body and wrenching a howl of agony from his raw throat. He yanked himself away from whatever had attacked him, twisting around and managing to partially lob off the spider’s head with his sword before it could strike again, and in the back of his mind Thorin registered that it must have pierced his armour with its fangs. But before he could react, the creature’s legs lashed out in death throes so violent and forceful that one of them caught Thorin in the chest and sent him flying backwards into the darkness.

His back crashed into something broad and solid with enough force that it knocked the wind right out of him, leaving him gasping and then frantically pawing at the ground to find where his sword hand landed. In the very moment that he felt his hand wrap around Orcrist’s hilt, however, Thorin _felt_ rather than heard a shifting in the trees behind him. His whole body tensed up a half-second too late, his sword hand twitching just as a notched arrow swam into view immediately next to his face. 

“Be silent, dwarf,” he heard someone whisper behind him, their voice cool and calm and _female_ , but it was already too late to disarm them. Thorin had an instant to search the clearing in front of him – he needed to find a way to warn Kili and Fili, to find _Bilbo_ in the scrambling madness – before the whiteness of pain burst across his eyes as something heavy crashed against the side of his head.

He saw a flash of green and auburn, heard someone shouting – and then the ground was rushing up to meet him as the world blinked out of existence.

 

\--

 

When consciousness began to cling and drag at the edges of Thorin’s mind, the first thing that he became aware of was the drifting cadence of voices nearby. They were gentle voices, flowing gracefully along rounded vowels and lilting rhythms, and it took Thorin a few long minutes to realize that the reason he could not understand what they were saying was because they were speaking a different language.

They were speaking _Elvish_ , and that alone was enough to make his whole body tense up. 

Thorin’s eyes flew open, the sudden light leaving him dazzled even as he wrenched himself violently away from the direction the voices were coming from. He did not make it very far, but the movement made him suddenly and violently aware of his shoulder. It hurt _badly_ , the pain swelling up into a cruel peak before alleviating for a few seconds – just long enough to make its return all the more unpleasant. He let out a low hiss and curled in on himself slightly, eyes slamming shut against the searing brightness and the pain alike. He tried to clamp his hands over the wound, and it was only when the action proved impossible that he realized he could not raise his hands any higher than his chest. He was bound to something.

 _— where is everyone, where are Kili and Fili, where is_ Bilbo –

— _are they captured or are they dead, how many are dead –_

 _—they followed me here and we could not even make it to the mountain, it is my fault, all my_ fault _–_

He shook his head, aggressively pulling himself out of the endless questions to focus on the matter at hand. He took a few deep breaths, forced his hands to stop shaking. Gathered himself together to become the king he knew he must be right now.

It dawned on him that the only thing he could hear was his own heavy breathing. The voices had stopped.

“ _Kela_ ,” someone said – a female voice, he was almost sure of it, stern and cool and full of authority – and there was a moment’s pause before he heard light footsteps as someone left the room. Thorin tried opening his eyes again, wincing at the light, and slowly began to take in his surroundings.  

He was on the floor of a small cell with brown stone walls, his hands tied to a metal ring embedded in the stone. Thorin looked down, lip curling as he noticed that the ring was crafted in that stylized, flowing, _elvish_ way that always made his hackles rise. The rope too was of the thin, silvery kind that he knew to be infuriatingly strong. At the entrance of his cell there was a barred door made of the same twisting metal – but the door hung open instead of actively barring him inside. And standing in the doorway, silhouetted by a soft yellow light, was an elf.

The elf was obviously female, tall and slender with pale-white skin and auburn hair and those awful ears with their sharp, jutting points. She was dressed in a long green tunic that looked ridiculously flimsy for the fighter he knew her to be. There was an unreadable expression on her face.

“You wake,” she said quietly, holding her chin high. There was something ever-so-slightly rigid about her posture. Before he could say anything mocking in reply, however, she reached over and picked up tall cup with a long stem – and he very nearly groaned in relief at the realization that she was offering him _water_.

The parched-dry scrape of his tongue, the weakness in his limbs, the way the world spun and lilted at the edges – all of it rushed to the forefront of his mind, his whole body consumed by the terrible thirst that was finally making itself known. Eyes locked on the cup, Thorin nodded hard. In response, the elf carefully made her way into the cell, crouched down on the ground, and tilted some of the water into his mouth.

It made something instinctual bristle inside him to be hand-fed by an elf, but Thorin’s indignation was a pale thing next to the overwhelming _joy_ of having cool, fresh water in his mouth. They had gone days in the woods with only a mouthful here or there to keep themselves going, and now his whole body sagged with relief as he finally got to drink his fill. He gulped the water down greedily, actually _feeling_ himself soak up the precious liquid like a mountain flower after a storm. Disappointment tugged at his chest when he swallowed the last mouthful, but to his surprise the elf left and returned a few seconds later with another full cup.

Almost as soon as Thorin finished the second cup, his stomach gave a loud grumble. For three days, he had been able to think about almost nothing aside from the terrible thirst; now that that had been appeased, he became almost instantaneously aware of just how hungry he was. He licked the last few drops from his lips, practical enough to know that a prisoner never knew where his next food or drink would come from.

It still rankled that someone – and _elf_ , no less – had seen him so desperate, so shameless. He looked up at the elf woman, eyes already narrowed. To his confusion, she was still crouching on the ground in front of him – and she almost appeared to be avoiding his eyes. After a few moments, her eyes still firmly fixed on the wall beside him, she spoke as though the words were being wrenched out of her.

“It was… _unnecessary._ For my guardsman to strike you like that. We already had you captured, and there was no need.” She glanced over at him, and her eyes were hard and determined as though she’d made her mind up about something. “I am sorry for that.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Thorin felt something hot and furious swell inside of him. At being caught, at being treated like something that deserved sympathy, at the fact that he almost certainly would have died without the intervention of the Mirkwood elves – he did not know which struck him the hardest. He jerked away from her regardless, narrowing his eyes and practically baring his teeth in a snarl.

“What does it matter, she-elf?” he spat, every word spoken like an insult. The pulsing pain in his shoulder was as constant as a heartbeat. “What does your pity do?” His captor did not look away – but to his surprise, he could have sworn he saw something in her face twitch. He pressed on. “Where are my companions? Do they live? What reason does Thranduil give for imprisoning me?”

Wordlessly, the elf shook her head. “I am not permitted to tell you anything.” She froze for a moment, as though hesitating. Something about her expression caught him off-guard; made Thorin bite his tongue instead of aggravating her further. She stood, and when she spoke her voice was perfectly even and completely unreadable: “And it matters to me.”

Before Thorin could blink, she looked over her shoulder and called out something in Elvish. Her words seemed to summon two guards, straight-backed and dressed in armour that was the colour of autumn. One of them knelt down and began untying his hands from the wall, although he left Thorin’s hands themselves bound together in front of him. The other seemed to stand guard, prepared to fight him into submission if he chose to attack them. Thorin was loathe to admit that any kind of surprise attack was not even a possibility at this point; he was too exhausted, too underfed to be a threat to anyone right now, and the throbbing pain in his shoulder made it had to focus on anything else. He drew himself up anyways, deliberately playing up the regal bearing that had been drilled into him since as long as he could remember.

 “Come,” the elf woman said, nodding at the guards as they hoisted Thorin to his feet. “You must stand before the Elvenking for your trespassing.”

 

\--

 

They wound through the dank corridors, the elf woman – Tauriel, he thought he heard one of them call her – in the lead. Thorin walked behind her, supported more than he liked to admit by the guards on either side of him.

Even with pain and hunger already battling for his attention, Thorin absently noted just how different the palace looked from the last time he had been there. While Mirkwood had never been his favourite place, it had been necessary for him and his family to come to the forest kingdom every few years as part of their relationship as allies. He had visited for diplomatic meetings, to solidify trade agreements, to address potential military threats to the north.

It all looked… different, now, in ways he could not fully express. It almost felt as though the whole palace had been _compacted_ , somehow, as though some great force had pressed against it until the whole kingdom buckled and distorted under its weight. The light in the hallways was greener than he remembered, the air slightly damper. A faint smell of rot tickled at the edges of his nose.

Perhaps Bilbo had been right about the forest feeling _sick_ after all.

Thorin shoved that thought out of his head as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the lurching hysteria that welled up inside him when he thought about the halfling – about the entire company, and what fate had befallen them.

 As soon as they turned the final corner into the throne room and his eyes landed on Thranduil, however, all other thoughts vanished from his mind as everything – decades of hatred, of _betrayal_ , of wishing his death and cursing his name – came rushing back to him at once.

Thranduil looked the same. The cursed wretch looked the _same_ , and there was no reason why that should come as a shock to him but it did. He had the same long hair, the same imperious look on his face. Sitting here in his throne room, back straight and eyes ever-so-slightly distant, he looked the same as he did the day he stood and watched Erebor burn. The day he watched Thorin’s people burn and die and did _nothing_ to help them. Thorin had fantasized thousands of time about what it would be like, once they reclaimed Erebor, to make Thranduil pay for that betrayal. To make them _all_ pay.

And now the company was dead or dying, and Thorin himself was to be imprisoned for who knew how long. Now they would never take their home back.

The procession of guards halted, Tauriel saying something in Elvish before respectfully bowing her head and moving aside. Thorin tried not to sway on his feet, attempted to hold himself high as he stared right into the eyes of the one who saw the suffering of his people and chose to look away. The Elvenking held his gaze without blinking.

“Ah, yes,” Thranduil hummed, tilting his head ever-so-slightly to one side. “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. Last King Under the Mountain.” He enunciated the few words carefully, slowly – as though he found some humour in the title. There was a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It made Thorin want to strike him hard in the face. “As soon as my scouts gave me your description, I knew it must be you. I doubt there is another in all the world who can embody your particular kind of impotent superiority.”

“The rest of my company, Thranduil,” Thorin almost growled, the words scraped out of his throat. He needed more water, but the thought of asking for such a thing in front of _him_ was absolutely unthinkable. “When you took me, they were starving and dying of thirst, fighting off a horde of the vile spiders you permitted into your realm.” He narrowed his eyes, making his next words as regal and commanding as possible. “Tell me where they are and if they live.”

As far as Thorin could see, Thranduil showed no outward sign of a response. His gaze lingered on Thorin’s for an uncomfortably long time, standing perfectly still in that particular elvish way that always struck him as so unnatural. For the first time, Thorin glanced over and noticed the younger elf standing next to him. The same blonde hair, the same look of blank distaste. A son, perhaps.

“I do not believe you are in any position to be asking questions, King Under the Mountain,” said Thranduil, the words slow and drawn-out. Thorin let out a low sound of anger, tugging uselessly at the guards’ hold as crushing frustration and _grief_ washed over him. Thranduil’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “Why did you enter into my woods?”

For a moment, Thorin hesitated. “Is it a crime to visit kin in the Iron Hills?” he spat out after a pause, allowing scorn and disdain to show openly on his face. It was not difficult.

“It is a crime to trespass on my lands,” Thranduil replied coolly, choosing that moment to rise from his throne. His robes – ridiculous things, draped to the ground and pooling around his feet, completely impractical for battle or the rigours of diplomacy – shifted dramatically as he stood. He took a few slow steps forward, still looking down at Thorin as though he was something insignificant, dismissible. An insect on the floor of his throne room. “There is no love lost between our people. What kind of visit, I wonder, would require such urgency that you would choose to step into my domain.”

It was not a question. Thorin felt a spasm of instinctive panic well up at that, at the idea that Thranduil suspected their purpose – before remembering that it was all pointless. That any hope of reclaiming Erebor had been lost when the spiders attacked, when he was captured and separated from his party. Something hollow and horrible settled in the pit of his stomach and he fought against it, drew on the fury and the indignity to keep him from falling to his knees in anguish.

“I would gladly choose death over being dragged into the home of such treacherous filth!” Thorin shouted, the words sudden and loud as he suddenly began to strain against the guards holding him back by the arms. Gritted his teeth and struggled until his breathing was heavy, until his shoulder felt like it was on fire, until the rage was white-hot and so bright Thorin could not look at anything else. The words reverberated off the earthen walls, and Thranduil’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly at the unexpected outburst.

After a moment, however, something in his pale eyes hardened.

“If you will not tell me your true purpose,” said Thranduil, voice lower and harsher than before, “then I see no purpose in keeping you here.” He cocked his head to one side. “Perhaps a few decades in solitude will loosen that tongue of yours.”

Without another word, the guards on either side of him tightened their grip on his shoulders and began to drag him backward, and Thorin let out an involuntary roar of agony at the sudden pressure on his wound. He struggled with all the strength he had left, dragging his feet on the ground even as the pain made the world swim in front of his eyes.

“They are starving out there, Thranduil!” Thorin barked as they pulled him back, glaring at the king as though he hoped it could cut right through him. “If they die, their blood is on your hands!”

“My lord,” came a cool, quiet voice from beside him, and Thorin was startled to realize that the words came from Tauriel. She was so silent he had almost entirely forgotten she was still in the room. Her face was completely neutral, her posture utterly straight as she looked to her king. The guards hesitated, obviously waiting to hear what she had to say. “The dwarf king suffered a bite from one of the Dol Guldur spiders before we were able to capture him. I recommend that he be taken to the houses of healing before being taken to his cell.”

For a long few seconds, Thranduil was silent as a wordless debate raged behind his blank face. When he finally spoke, his eyes were cold.

“One spider bite will not be fatal to a dwarf,” he said, voice low and spiteful. His mouth was tight at the corners as he spoke. “Let the wound linger. Perhaps a little suffering will encourage his cooperation.”

For a split second, Thorin thought he saw Tauriel _flinch_ – but then she nodded, wiping all emotion from her face as though it had never been there to begin with. When the guards began to move, it was all Thorin could do to keep himself from wincing or crying out at the pain until they were out of the throne room and out of Thranduil’s sight.

 

\--

 

The place where Thranduil chose to keep him was not a shared dungeon, lined on either side with others that the Elvenking decided to be criminals. His was a single isolated cell nestled deep in the lower levels of the palace, down a long hallway and tucked out of sight. It was little more than a small room with bars, containing nothing but a chamber pot, a bowl and pitcher of water for washing, and a ratty straw cot. The walls were rough and dank, and the only light came from a single torch. The air smelled heavy with mulch and damp.

They left him without so much as a sentry to watch over him, his security seemingly trusted entirely to the strength of the walls and bars that held him in. It was more than enough, and it left Thorin utterly alone. The only time he saw guards – the only time he saw _anyone_ – was twice a day when they came to bring him food and empty his chamber pot. And no matter how much he raged and shouted at them, no matter what questions he asked or what demands he made, every single one refused to acknowledge him at all.

The regular meals were his only indication of how long it had been since his capture, but the mounting pain in his shoulder made even that difficult to keep track of. And even though Thorin ate every scrap, the food they brought was never enough to make him strong. They brought him dry bread and thin vegetable broth, bowls of mashed lentils and the odd bit of hard cheese.

He threw himself at the bars more times than he could count; screamed himself hoarse, tried scratching at the walls with his fingernails. None of it made any difference.

Eventually he stopped bothering to ask about the company altogether; where they were, if they were alive, if they were being held somewhere in the palace. There had never been much of a chance, after all. Surely Thranduil would gloat if he had captured even a single dwarf.

After three days  – or at least what he thought to be three days – the last remnants of his desperate, clinging hope began to fade. They were not being held captive, and even if some had survived the spider attack they were surely dead from thirst by now.

The certainty of their deaths settled on his heart like a heavy weight, a sorrow that that sunk through to his bones.

He sank into a state of despair so deep that grief became like breathing, the loss so unfathomable it was as though his chest had been opened up and hollowed out. He wept for his sister-sons who had followed him so trustingly, for a sister would never know why her entire family never came home. He thought of Balin, who had steered him like a ship at sea when he was too lost to find his own way. He thought of Dwalin, who had stood by his side through every battle.

Thorin felt the loss of every dwarf who had followed him hoping to find a place where they belonged and had instead found nothing but suffering and death. The guilt of it clawed at his mind, the knowledge that _none of them would have been here without him_ so painful that he had to force himself to contemplate it.

Without him, Bilbo would have remained in the Shire. Tucked away safe in Bag End, surrounded by warmth and comforts and never knowing the horrors of this madman’s journey. Without Thorin, Bilbo would have lived  happily until the end of his days.

For some bizarre reason he himself could not fathom, thinking of Bilbo was the one thing that did not make him fall deeper into his misery. Instead, it rallied him; made him wrench himself up and throw himself against the bars again and again, shouting into the night that _he cannot be dead, I will not let him be dead, bring him back bring him back bring him back bring him back –_

His heart had latched on to Bilbo with such fervour, with such _determination_ against all sense, and now it refused to let go. A voice at the back of Thorin’s head reminded him that he had never seen a body, that there was still a chance. It tormented him with unfounded hope even after he had let the others go.

Before long, however, hope and grief alike were swallowed up by the pain. The wound where the beast’s fang had punctured him was deep and raw, and the pounding ache radiated out until it felt as though his whole body was on fire. Washing the wound with water had not helped, either. It had swelled and crusted over regardless, the flesh around it turning a sickly shade of green that made his stomach churn.

 _Venom_ , he thought. The burning in his shoulder had grown brighter, the world around him seeming to dim in response. _Some kind of poison._ And as the pain grew, all other thoughts drifted more and more out of his reach. He burned with fever and sweated through his blankets. He shook with chills and wrapped them around himself anyways.  

He could only lie there, eyes screwed shut as the fever-dreams twisted around him, pulling him in so deep he _knew_ they must be real, they _must_ be – before they spat him back into the emptiness of his cell again, burning and freezing and alone, so very alone. The world drifted around him as he dreamed of fire and bloodlust, marriage beads and stone halls, of elven guards who flickered in and out of existence and looked at him with pity in their eyes. He would be forgotten here, mad and weak and dying in this place. Just like his father; another story never told, another question never answered.

He was in Erebor, watching the dragon come to destroy everything he cared about in the world. He was in Ered Luin with Kili and Fili, the two of them young, so _young_ , running around his ankles and looking for their mother, a dark and light smudge of motion in the light. He was beside his mother as she gripped his hand and whispered his secret name over and over, her skin so pale that she kept blurring into her stiff white bedsheets.

_Thorin._

The wound swelled and Thorin’s head reeled and everything else stripped away, his whole mind narrowing down to the tiny speck of warm light that was nothing but _Bilbo_ , the way he smelled and the way he laughed and the way he scoffed and the way he _was_. Thorin saw the days that were and the days that could never be, not anymore. He thought of _Bilbo tucked into a chair at Bag End_ and _Bilbo’s rotting body in the woods_ and _Bilbo spread naked across soft sheets, bashful and eager and draped in jewels._ He fell into worlds where they loved and lost, worlds where they simply loved, worlds where they never loved at all. He saw Bilbo gutted and bleeding, saw him wandering terrified and alone in the forest as the others died behind him.

_Thorin, can you hear me?_

He saw Bilbo standing in a great hall surrounded by treasure, staring out at the riches around him and grinning with a happiness that seemed to catch him off guard. He turned that smile on Thorin, their eyes meeting at the same moment a great burst of fire came behind him, swallowing him up as Thorin screamed and struggled but could not _move_ , could not get to him, could only stand and watch in horror as Bilbo’s curly hair roared with flames and his skin blackened, the white of his bones showing through cracked flesh – but the smile remained on his face, creased and humouring and ever-present even as its owner burnt to a cinder around it.

_Listen, you have to wake up._

They were in the throne room at Erebor, reclaimed and hearty and whole again, a crown on Thorin’s head and yellow gemstones in Bilbo’s hair. Everyone looked at him, at the halfling the King Under the Mountain had chosen above all others, but no one else could ever touch. He was locked up behind doors and promises, surrounded by books and gold and everything to keep him here, keep him here forever. The Arkenstone shone above them, glittering and humming with pleasure as the seven dwarf families came to kneel at their feet. Both of his treasures, his to keep and cherish.

_…Thorin…_

They were lying on a bed and Thorin knew, he just _knew_ , that it was their bed, that they lived here together. He was lying on his back, hair spread out messily over the sheets as Bilbo crawled on top of him, his skin scrubbed clean and his hair still damp from bathing. Bilbo was so small on top of him and he was _laughing_ , laughing happily as Thorin reached up and –

“Thorin!”

The word, sharp and loud on the still air, jolted him into wakefulness. His eyes flew open, the room taking a few seconds to settle. Thorin blinked as the figure above him came into focus.

It was Bilbo, looking thin and wild and covered in filth. There were twigs in his hair and a look of panicked concern on his face. He stared at Bilbo for a long few seconds, taking him in. Letting his eyes roam over his sunken cheeks, the mud on his coat. He had seen this vision countless times before.

He watched as Bilbo’s expression collapsed with relief, as his whole body sagged with it.

“Oh, thank heaven,” said Bilbo above him, sounding shaken and so, so grateful. The words were barely more than an exhalation of breath. “Thorin–”

But Thorin did not hesitate. Without giving the action a moment’s thought, without pausing for a single instant, Thorin reached up, tangled his fingers in Bilbo’s ragged curls – and dragged him down into a hard, ruthless kiss. 


	6. The Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I swore up and down that this was going to be the last chapter. That this fic would finally be done this week. But then I started writing it, and I realized that I needed to spend a bit more time on certain scenes, and... yeah. (To everyone who said "I don't know how you're going to fit everything that's left into one chapter!" -- you were right!) So the final chapter has been split into two parts: here's Chapter Six, and Chapter Seven will be up as soon as possible. My apologies for the delayed conclusion!
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading, and for your patience! Please do let me know what you think. :3 Updates and general flailing can be found as always at emilianadarling.tumblr.com -- feel free to come say hello!

The strength he used to haul Bilbo down was too much, too abrupt, cutting off Bilbo’s words with the force of it even before Thorin’s mouth crashed against his. It made Bilbo stagger as he was yanked down, the hard grip of Thorin’s hand in his hair giving him no choice but to land with all his weight against Thorin’s chest. Their teeth clacked, lips mashed together so hard that it was almost painful. Thorin felt as much as heard the muffled noise of surprise Bilbo made against his mouth.

 _This is right_. The thought was vague and far away, as though echoing from a great distance. Around him, the rest of the world felt out of focus. Out of reach. _This is mine_.

Everything had narrowed down to this – to what it felt like to have Bilbo so close to him. The weight of his body, the press of his mouth. It felt different than the other half-remembered kisses he had dreamed; sharper, somehow. More real.

There was movement between them, and slowly – very slowly – and after a moment Thorin realized that Bilbo’s hands were scrabbling at his chest. Trying to push himself up – to push himself away? Thorin dimly heard himself let out a low growl of displeasure. Without thinking he tightened his fingers in Bilbo’s curls and grabbed onto his shoulder with his other hand, holding him in place. It was hard, though. As though Thorin was weaker than he should be. 

The sound of their breathing was too loud. Thorin could not tell if Bilbo’s lips were soft, if his skin was warm, what it felt like to kiss someone whose face was so smooth. All of that seemed far away and indistinct, as though it was happening to someone else. As though he was looking at himself though a thick fog. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and Thorin suddenly became aware of the fact that Bilbo’s body was rigid and tense on top of him. That Bilbo’s hand was spasming gracelessly against his shoulder before finally falling still, limp and defeated and overpowered.

Thorin felt the bottom fall out of his stomach.

His eyes flew open. With jolting, clumsy movements, he released his hold on Bilbo’s shoulder and hair at the same moment that he kicked out with his legs, trying to frantically push himself away.

The results were immediate and disastrous. Their mouths were wrenched apart with a soft wet noise that made Thorin’s stomach churn, and for a split second he was able to see look of petrified shock on Bilbo’s face before he shoved himself away with such force that he very nearly upset the balance of the rickety cot and sent himself tumbling to the floor. It made Bilbo stumble back as well, his feet back under him again. His eyes were wide and he was breathing hard, his hair even messier than it had been when Thorin first opened his eyes.

They stared at each other for a long while, neither of them speaking. The sudden lack of sound was practically a physical presence between them.

Without saying a word, Thorin pushed himself up with his arms and _looked_ at Bilbo for a long while. He dragged his eyes over Bilbo’s tattered coat, over what looked like _cobwebs_ in his hair. There was a cut on his cheek that Thorin hadn’t noticed before, a smear of blood under his eye. The air around Thorin was pulsing, beating, and for a second he wondered if he was seeing his own heartbeat. He shook his head.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin said slowly after a long pause, his mouth moving around the words slowly, as though he had never spoken them before. His tongue felt thick and strange in his mouth. “I did not mean… I did not intend…”

He licked his lips, trying to blink the fog out of his eyes. He felt as though he should know what to say, but the words were gone as though they had never existed. Out of the corner of his eyes, Thorin noticed that the walls were starting to melt; thick rock sloughing off puddling down on the ground like water. He gave his head a firm shake.

When he looked up again and caught Bilbo’s eyes, Thorin was baffled to see that Bilbo’s whole expression had closed off. He looked very much like he had that day on the Carrock before their embrace; his mouth a straight line and his eyes cast down, something almost _hurt_ in the lines of his face. Hurt made sense, though, because nothing about this was acceptable. Nothing about this was right.

Thorin knew he should feel humiliated, horrified – knew he _would_ feel those things, eventually. They were just out of reach for now, sunbeams in the dust that he could not catch.

At the moment, however, he was still somewhat uncertain whether or not he was even properly awake. He half-expected the fever-dream to spit him back out into the loneliness of his empty cell at any moment because this could not be happening. Because none of this made any _sense_.  

“… are you dead?” Thorin asked, the words slipping out before he could stop himself, and if Bilbo’s expression had been closed-off before, now his features went slack with bewilderment. With _fear_.  “I don’t… how did you—?”

Before Thorin could finish the sentence, however, a wave of nausea hit him with such strength and immediacy that it left him doubled over. He was aware of the pain in his shoulder again, the wound a throbbing burn that left him shaking. The pain made the nausea worse, and Thorin groaned as he desperately tried to stop himself from being sick.

All at once Bilbo was right next to him, appearing without sound or movement as though he had blinked into existence there. He rested one hand on Thorin’s back and grabbed one of Thorin’s hands with the other. Their fingers squeezed together.

 “Thorin?” said Bilbo, a panicky note in his voice. “Thorin, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

“… venom,” Thorin choked out from between clenched teeth, unable to stop himself from groaning when another wave of nausea twisted in his stomach. Bile tried to crawl its way up his throat, but he forced it back down. “Spider venom. Bit me on the shoulder when we were attacked.” His stomach roiled, almost making him gag. “It makes me sick. Makes me… _see_ things.”

For a moment, he felt Bilbo’s hand on his back fall still – but barely a moment had passed before it was moving again, rubbing comforting circles into the fabric of his tunic.

For such a small creature, Bilbo’s hands were firm and steady. They kept Thorin grounded, kept him _there_ as the nausea slowly began to ebb away. Its absence left him feeling cold and sweaty and empty, shaking so hard he felt his teeth chattering. He felt a gentle pressure as Bilbo guided him back into a lying position, his hands unwaveringly strong and sure as they eased him down.

There was the touch of hands on his chest, a tugging at the fabric of his tunic as though to expose his wound to the air. Thorin tried to protest but all that came out was a low, pathetic noise that was slurred and incomprehensible even to his own ears. When he reached up to push Bilbo’s hands away, however, he was jolted into awareness by the sensation of Bilbo actually _slapping his hand in chastisement_ like a mother keeping a child’s hand out of the honeypot. He opened his eyes, blinking at Bilbo in amazement.

“Stop that,” Bilbo snapped. His voice was firm and no-nonsense, all of his attention focused on uncovering Thorin’s wound. “I need to actually _see_ it, Thorin, or I won’t be able to describe it to Oin.”

His words were enough of a shock that when Bilbo moved to uncover his shoulder a second time, Thorin did not resist. It took some effort to peel the crusted fabric away from his skin, but the sting of it barely registered in Thorin’s mind. Once the wound was fully exposed, Bilbo wrinkled his nose but did not turn away.

“That… that is fairly distinctive,” said Bilbo, more to himself than anything. He let out a little breath of air, gently lowering the fabric back down to cover the wound again. “I should be able to describe that easily enough, I think.”

“Oin is alive?” Thorin finally managed to ask, his voice sounding small and brittle to his own ears. Bilbo’s head jerked up in surprise.

“Yes,” said Bilbo, and there was so much sympathy in his face that Thorin could barely hold his gaze. “Yes, they’re all alive. I’m sorry, I didn’t… I thought you knew.” His eyebrows knitted together gently, his filthy curls so long they were practically in his eyes. “I thought the elves would’ve told you. The dwarves were only captured a day after you went missing.”

That… that was important information, Thorin knew. The uncertainty that had weighed on him for so long was beginning to lighten; the grief that had torn at his mind and driven him half-mad silenced all at once. A distant part of his mind knew that this was cause for celebration, for joy, for anger at the cruelty of his captors.

But the pain in his shoulder was mild, now. Mild enough that he could unclench his jaw and relax his muscles without being overwhelmed by agony. His eyelids were so _heavy_.

“Oh,” mumbled Thorin, and the exclamation was almost inaudible. His body felt wrung-out, drained. It was becoming difficult to focus on anything, as though his thoughts were so slippery he could not hold on to them.

Something was still troubling him, though. It niggled at the back of his mind even as his breathing slowed, even as sleep nudged at the corners of his mind.

 “How did you get in here?” Thorin asked, peering up at Bilbo with half-open eyes. “How did you find this place?”

“That’s not important now,” Bilbo replied, and if the words came out a little too quickly Thorin barely noticed. “Now it’s time to sleep.”

“But –”

“If I promise to tell you later, will you do as I say?” Bilbo asked. Thorin had to run his mind over the words a few times before he was able to grasp their meaning, but once he understood he gave a single sleepy nod.

“All right,” said Thorin. His eyes fluttered shut and he slumped back onto the cot, exhausted and used-up and barely able to get the words out. “All right.”

Eyes closed and already mostly asleep, Thorin almost thought that he could feel fingertips brushing along the side of his face.

 “I’ll be back soon,” came Bilbo’s voice, soft and gentle. He sounded very far away. “Sleep now.”

And then the fingers were gone, Bilbo’s words echoing through over him as he slipped back into the darkness.

 

\--

 

The next few times Thorin woke, he was barely conscious enough to understand what was going on.

He remembered bits and pieces, later. He remembered a cold balm being rubbed into the wound in his shoulder by steady hands, the bitter herbs Bilbo made him chew until the juices coated his mouth. He remembered what it felt like to have a cup of water brought up to his mouth by hands that were not his, how the wound in his shoulder throbbed and ached as the venom was slowly leached out.

The first time Bilbo brought him proper food – venison stew and roasted root vegetables, for the woodland elves were never ones to deny themselves the pleasure of fresh meat – Thorin fully expected his stomach to roil, for even the smell to be too much for him. But the nausea never came; instead, all he felt was _ravenous_. He ate everything Bilbo brought him after that; crusty brown bread with nuts and fruit baked right in, eggs cooked with herbs and butter, even a cup of milk that Thorin could not quite envision Bilbo actually smuggling in. He ate every bite until he couldn’t eat anymore, until he was full for the first time months.

Sometimes Bilbo ate too, which was good. It made something inside of Thorin feel warm and pleased to see Bilbo eat, even when the world was so foggy he could barely think.

Most of the time, Bilbo talked. It passed the time, and as long as he remained conscious of the guard rotation there was no danger in it: Thorin’s cell was so far away from the rest of the dungeons that there was no chance anyone would hear him.  

“That was one of the reasons it took me so long to get to you,” said Bilbo at one point, nodding at Thorin seriously over a bowl of leek and potato stew. “Finding a way to sneak into the palace took less than a week, but stealing a key to your cell and memorizing the guard schedule took longer.”

Bilbo talked about spider webs and swords, about freeing the dwarves from the sticky snare of the webs just long enough to see them be captured again. He talked about hiding out in the elven city that surrounded the palace for a few days, staying out of sight and stealing food where he could. At Thorin’s prompting, he spoke at length about their companions and the conditions of their imprisonment.

“They’re much better off than you are, actually,” Bilbo told him as he changed the ointment and dressing on his wound. Thorin believed it to be perhaps the fourth time he had done so; it was difficult to keep track. But every time Bilbo cleaned and re-dressed the wound, Thorin’s head grew clearer. He still was not himself, but the ability to string words together into reasonably clear questions and answers was a welcome change.

There was a wry smile on Bilbo’s lips. “Their cells are nicer. No one was hurt badly in the fight with the spiders, but those who did suffer injuries had them attended to almost as soon as they were captured.” Bilbo hesitated, glancing up and meeting Thorin’s eyes briefly. “I cannot believe your wound was allowed to fester for so long. How could Thranduil not know of it?”

Absently, Thorin shook his head. He was able to sit up now, back propped up against the wall and legs dangling over the edge of the cot while Bilbo knelt on the straw mattress next to him. It had not been designed with people of their size in mind, and there was more than enough room for both of them to sit side-by-side.

“Mmm,” said Thorin, giving his head a little shake. “No, Thranduil knew.” The fact that his words were not slurred felt like a considerable achievement. He gestured vaguely at his shoulder. “This was… part of my punishment.”

Bilbo’s hands, which had been deftly wrapped white linen around his shoulder, stilled abruptly. Thorin blinked sleepily, turning his head to see what was the matter – but the look on Bilbo’s face made him hold his tongue. There was a rigidity in his expression that Thorin had not seen there often. His lips were pressed tightly together, and his eyes were fixed on the wound with an intensity that Thorin did not fully understand. 

A few moments passed. Bilbo opened his mouth as if to say something before closing it again, a look of solemn consideration on his face. After a moment’s pause his hands began to work again, their movements brisker than before.

“If these are the only elves you knew when you were growing up,” said Bilbo as he finished dressing the wound, voice carefully even and eyes still fixed on the work in front of him, “then I think I might understand your aversion to them a bit better.”

He tied off the bandage with an efficient knot, then pulled Thorin’s dark blue tunic into place so that the guards would not notice anything out of the ordinary when they brought him his evening meal in a few hours. “Now get some rest. I have to do some sneaking around to figure out how best to escape this blasted place.”

That was how Bilbo’s visits always went: he would appear without a sound, then play nursemaid for an hour or two before running off as though he had never been there in the first place. Sometimes, when he was gone, Thorin would question whether or not he had ever been there to begin with. His presence felt even less real than the dreams, much of the time. Less plausible, less solid. It was impossible for Thorin to tell how much time passed, moments and memories slipping through his fingers even as he lived through them, and even as he grew stronger the world continued to be polished with a gloss of unreality, of impossibility.

Even as the poison was leached from his wound and the herbs soothed his fever, Thorin still did not feel real. Did not feel like _himself_.

The day that Thorin finally awoke and did feel like himself again – fully present and unfiltered by illness or delusion, his fever broken and strong enough to walk, to run, to _fight_ – he almost wished he could have lingered in the dream.

 

\--

 

When Thorin finally returned to himself, nearly three days had passed since Bilbo Baggins had first found him. He opened his eyes, blinked up at the rough-hewn ceiling – and felt the memory of _that kiss_ hit him square in the chest as though he was being physically struck by it. As though he was remembering a nightmare.

But the dreams were over now, and this was the reality he had to live in.

 _I laid hands on him_ , Thorin thought, remembering the violence – the _ruthlessness_ – of what he did. Twisting his filthy hands into Bilbo’s hair and yanking him down so hard it must have been painful; using his greater size and strength to physically make Bilbo stay in place when he tried to pull away. Before, the memory had been dream-like, unreal.

Remembering it now, unfiltered by the delirium or exhaustion, made Thorin feel physically ill.

 _I forced that on him_. 

The shame that coiled in his stomach was so visceral, so endless, that he could barely comprehend it. It burned like molten metal, hot and pure and destroying everything in its wake. It left him staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open and so horrified at himself that he could not have spoken even had he tried.

Thorin had felt shame like this when he had been captured by Thranduil; when he believed his kin and companions dead, that he had been responsible for the ruination of their quest. But there had been grief, then, too. A sorrow that had obfuscated the burn of it, the _helplessness_ of his failure. Now it was all-consuming and raw, filling him up to the brim and leaving him with a sinking feeling in his chest.

There had been no understanding between them; Thorin had never even expressed his interest, a thousand little things always seeming more important, always getting in the way. But he had kissed Bilbo anyways. And worse than that – so much worse – was the fact that when Bilbo had objected, when he had tried to pull away, Thorin had refused to let him.

There were no words in the common tongue for the depth of his transgression, but the words for it in Khuzdul ran through his head over and over, wearing away at his mind like rushing water over a stone.

If they were in Erebor as it was, or Ered Luin, or the Iron Hills, or anywhere Dwarvish law held any sway, he could be tried for such an action if Bilbo wanted. Regardless of his birth or station, king or no. It was unforgivable.

And the worst part – the very worst part – was that Bilbo seemed to have forgiven him anyways. He had not shouted or scolded him or tried to run, had not left Thorin to rot half-mad down here in solitude as would have been his due. Instead, Bilbo had _stayed_. Had put himself in unspeakable danger, wandering around the palace for _days_ where anyone could have seen him, in order to nurse Thorin back to health. Bilbo had chosen to clean his wounds and bring him food and brush the tangles from Thorin’s hair with his fingers. He had given Thorin everything when he deserved nothing.

 _He is more selfless than I will ever be_ , Thorin thought distantly. His insides felt hollow. At long last his mind was crystal clear, unclouded by fever or exhaustion, and the only thing in the world he could think about was so devastating  that there was a physical ache in his chest. Thorin sat up slowly, turning and letting his feet hang over the edge of the cot. He stared at the wall across from him without really seeing it.

Before, there had been a history of bad blood between them. There had been Thorin’s own foul temperament to contend with; his status as a king in exile, his inability to offer the proper tokens and trinkets to make up for past behaviour.

All of that seemed very small, now. Laughable.

There had been one chance – _one chance_ – to get it right. To reclaim his kingdom and keep Bilbo safe, to make everything up to him once and for all. For so long, Thorin had daydreamed about the things he would offer Bilbo after all this was over; the ways he could win Bilbo’s affection once and for all. He would have given him a smoking pipe with rubies in the handle, lavish clothes stitched with gold thread to make up for the way Bilbo own Shire clothing had been ruined throughout their acquaintance. He had imagined himself giving Bilbo beads small enough to suit his short hair, rings for his slender fingers. All of them inscribed with Khuzdul that would show Thorin’s claim; writing that Bilbo would be able to _read_ and love and cherish.

He had imagined offering himself, heart no longer weighed down with his peoples’ sorrow, attentive and devoted and willing to do anything to make this work.

And in a single action – a single _instant_ – Thorin had ruined all of that forever.

For a long while, Thorin sat and stared at the wall and let his mind run over every memory he could dredge up from the last few days. Himself, helpless and hapless; the patience that Bilbo had shown him. The humiliation burned almost as brightly as his anger and shame, settling hard in his chest as he realized what must be done.

The quest was all he had left. To rebuild the home of his forefathers or die trying, to make his mark or else make one last sacrifice for the line of Durin. The best thing he could do for Bilbo now was to get him out alive, to send him home to the Shire with a caravan’s worth of gold to live off for the rest of his days.

The halfling had done so much for him, and so far he had been rewarded only with cruelty. There was no reason he should be required to withstand any more unpleasantness. 

Stone-faced and solemn, Thorin slowly got to his feet. He noticed in a vague sort of way that there was no accompanying head rush when he stood, no lingering unsteadiness in his legs. He walked slowly over to the bowl and water pitcher, washing himself as best he could and aware for the first time just how vile he must look, of how he awful must _smell_. It was but one more humiliation to add to the growing collection. He removed his tunic and rinsed some of the sweat from his torso, then splashed a handful of water on his face. He cleaned his teeth with one of the sprigs of silversage Bilbo had brought him, then combed his fingers through his hair to work out the last few snarls. 

At some point during his delirium, he had discarded all of his heavy outer layers until he was left wearing only his tunic and trousers. It did not take long to track down every coat and belt and leather strap, wrapping himself up in layers of propriety and stateliness until he was no longer a half-mad prisoner who had been left to suffer and die in this cursed place. Until he was Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain again.

He was just adjusting the last bracer when he heard the quiet clank of a key turning in the lock, and Thorin knew who it was before he even turned around. There had been no footsteps coming down the hall to warn him, and despite the supposed light-footedness of elves his guards never bothered to conceal their movements.

“Oh!” he heard Bilbo exclaim softly. Thorin took a deep breath, then turned around to face him.

It was obvious that Bilbo had stilled mid-step, a bundle of what was doubtless fresh food clutched tight to his chest with one hand. His other hand was tucked into his waistcoat pocket, only his ring and pinky fingers visible. Bilbo’s eyebrows were drawn up in an expression of quiet surprise. He looked very much caught off guard.

“Thorin,” said Bilbo quietly, almost as though he had been expecting someone else. “You’re awake.” His eyes quickly darted from Thorin’s washed face to his shod feet. “You look well.”

There was something hesitant in his demeanour, an uncertainty in his eyes, and it evoked the memory of that kiss so _strongly_ that Thorin could practically feel Bilbo’s weight on top of him, the way his hands had scrabbled at Thorin’s chest.

Something in Thorin’s heart grew cold. He did not deserve any of this; the care, the kindness, the tentative camaraderie they had built so carefully throughout the journey. He nodded gruffly.

“I am in your debt, Master Baggins,” Thorin declared, the words coming out quiet and clipped, and there was no way to convey just how much he meant it. Across the cell, Bilbo was staring at him with an expression that he could not decipher. Thorin swallowed, averting his eyes and pretending to adjust his bracers again. He flexed his fingers and stared determinedly at how the action made the leather shift. “How goes the plan of escape?”

It was a moment before Bilbo spoke, and when he did something about his voice sounded off-balance. Strange. “It’s ready, for the most part. The cellar guards have been making merry every night for the past week, and a new shipment of barrels came in this morning.” Bilbo hesitated. “We were mostly waiting for you to recover.”

“And now I am recovered,” said Thorin simply. He raised his head and his eyes locked with Bilbo’s. Thorin held his gaze, willing his expression to become hard and stony so that it could not betray any of the hollowness churning in his stomach. “We leave tonight.”

There was another long pause. Something about Bilbo’s expression was weary, the the lines of his face far too pronounced. There was a slump to his shoulders that made Thorin’s heart ache, but this was for Bilbo’s own good. The halfling was kind to a fault, sacrificing his own safety and sanity for someone who had done nothing but harm him. And now that Thorin was of sound mind he could not in good conscience continue to take advantage of that.

Eventually, he saw something in Bilbo’s posture deflate. “As you like,” he said, placing his bundle on the floor. “I’ll… I’ll go prepare for that, shall I?” He moved to leave, his feet not making a sound on the floor and not looking back when he spoke again. “I’ll be back before nightfall.”

The moment Bilbo turned the corner, Thorin felt his shoulders slump as he let out a great breath of air. He stared at the place where Bilbo had just been standing for far longer than he would have liked to admit.  

 

\--

 

 

In the end, Bilbo’s plan with the barrels proved to be startlingly effective.

Perhaps it was because they had attracted so much ill luck over the course of their journey – the clash with Azog, the fall into the goblin tunnels, capture at the hands of the Mirkwood elves – but when Bilbo had finally arrived the night before to free him from his cell, Thorin had fully expected that their escape would prove to be perilous at best. There were so many things that could have gone wrong, and it had seemed unthinkable that they would be able to leave without running into some kind of trouble.

Aside from a brief scare with the sleeping guards, however, everything had gone as planned. The rest of their company was rescued from their cells; they reclaimed their weapons and made their way through to the cellar without being noticed. And without alerting even a single guard, Bilbo had managed to get all of them into the barrels – and then get the barrels into the river.

Simply because the plan had been successful, however, did not mean that it was pleasant. The barrels were small and cramped, and each time the rushing water sent them crashing into the shore or another barrel its occupant was thumped around like a practice dummy during weapons training. Some of the barrels had been filled with foul-smelling cargo, as well: raw fish in one instance, a foul-smelling tuber in another. It left the unfortunate dwarves in those particular barrels wrinkling their noses and struggling to keep their stomachs from roiling.

The sun was just starting to rise by the time the trees around them began to thin, a welcome indicator that they were far enough from the Woodland Realm to avoid attracting notice. After weeks of being suffocated smothered by the decaying forest, the fact that they were able to see the sky at all was a cause for celebration. But it was another hour of travel before the water had grown peaceful enough that they were able to struggle to shore.

Soaking wet and bruised and free, finally _free_ , the company dragged themselves from the water just as the red-gold sun began to peek over the treetops. Thorin was one of the first to come ashore, as soaking wet as if he had swam the river instead of ridden on it. He heaved himself up onto the rocky earth and rolled onto his back almost at once, swallowing down huge gulps of breath and taking a moment for the shaking in his limbs to subside. As much as he had claimed to be fully recovered from his illness, his body was keenly aware of the toll it had taken.

Around him, the dwarves that had already made it to shore – he could see Dwalin, Bifur, and Dori for sure – were struggling to their feet and wading back into the lake to help drag the rest of their party to shore. All of them were weighed down by heavy armour and weapons. He was vaguely aware of shouts of relief and delight and exhaustion.

As he began to push himself off the ground to go assist in bringing everyone to shore, however, Thorin noticed that a few miles away, the river seemed to open up into a great body of water. He felt his already-unsteady breath hitch in his throat.

 _The Long Lake_ , Thorin realized, practically unable to believe his eyes.  And past the Long Lake lay the ruins of Dale, and past that–

Erebor. Like a land from a dream. For years, Thorin had dwelled for so long on his memories of Erebor -- on the _idea_ of Erebor, on everything it meant for him and his people – that it had practically ceased to be a real place in his mind. All this way, all this time. It was almost inconceivable that it could possibly be so close.

_We are truly here._

With a shake of his head that sent water flying from his dripping hair, Thorin forced himself to set aside all thoughts of Erebor for the moment. He had been absent from his companions for so long, and they deserved his attention and assistance more than anything else right now. He struggled to pull himself into a standing position, ignoring the trembling in his limbs and scanning around to see what help was required.

After a moment’s headcount, Thorin allowed himself a sigh of relief that he did not even realize he had been holding back. Some of them were in the water and some of them were on the shore, but miraculously every single member of the company was accounted for.

A flash a movement caught his eye, and when he saw the maroon coat and sopping wet curls he moved without thinking. Thorin waded back into the water until it came up to his chest, only stopping when the halfling was within his reach. Bilbo had apparently abandoned his barrel and was making an effort to paddle towards the shore, but his progress was slow and his motions had grown uncoordinated. He looked as though it was taking considerable effort to keep himself afloat for much longer. 

Without a word, Thorin leaned down and wrapped an arm around Bilbo’s waist. He gave a great haul until Bilbo’s head was well above the water, then began to drag him back to shore. He half-expected that Bilbo would try to wrench himself away as soon as he had his feet back under him, but he did not: instead, he fisted his hands in the fur of Thorin’s sodden cloak and allowed himself to be pulled along.

Even soaking wet, Bilbo weighed so little that it was easy to scoop him up half off his feet. As soon as they were back on dry land, Thorin spied a soft-looking patch of grass where he deposited his armful of halfling as gently as he could. Spluttering and shivering, Bilbo looked up at him with grateful eyes. The pale points of his ears were peeking through his wet hair.

“Thank you,” said Bilbo weakly. “I –”

Before he could finish, Thorin spun around and marched back to the water’s edge. He tried to ignore the heat in his face and the twisting in his stomach, refusing to let himself turn back. He helped those still in need of assistance with a single-minded focus, concentrating resolutely as he guided Gloin to shore, as he and Dwalin pulled Bombur from the water.

Thorin was so focused on keeping his eyes firmly on his task ( _don’t turn around don’t look at him, don’t you dare, have you not done enough already?_ ) that he did not notice Fili and Kili until they were crashing into him, seizing him in an embrace that nearly swept him off his feet. They clutched at him with such strength that it was difficult to breathe, but he could not bring himself to care. All he could do was  hold them close, the three of them an undignified cluster of soaking hair and clothes. Thorin closed his eyes and tried to ignore the tightness in his throat.

“Uncle,” he heard one of them mumble against his chest, and it struck him for the first time that they, too, had been uncertain whether a member of their family was living or dead during their capture. For a moment, it felt as though they were thirty years old again, come to hide behind his cloak after some prank or folly gone awry. They stood in a tangle of limbs for a long while, and Thorin tried to forget what it had been like to think them dead; what it had been like to think himself responsible.

 _This is enough,_ Thorin told himself, pushing away the sadness that threatened at the corners of his mind. _This should be enough for anyone._

 

\--

They made camp that morning tucked into the woods alongside the river on the off chance they had been followed, some of them barely managing to make it to the clearing before collapsing on the ground in exhaustion. Those that were able to stay awake stood guard or scavenged for food or hung sodden cloaks and coats and tunics out to dry. There were still another few weeks before Durin’s Day would be upon them; there was enough time to recover before pressing forward.

After Thorin fell into a sleep so dreamless and deep it felt as though he had barely closed his eyes before they were open again, he took a little time to tend to his basic needs. He returned to the river to properly bathe away the lingering filth of his imprisonment, washing away the last of the sweat and grime that still clung to his skin. While he wished he could was the tunic and trousers as well, he had no spare ones to wear in the meantime. It would be good to resupply soon; he wondered idly if there were any villages of men between them in the mountain.

Once Thorin was as clean as he could be without hot water or soap, he returned to camp. They are squirrel stew that afternoon, all of them clustered around the stolen Elvish stew pot as his companions filled him in on everything he had missed since his capture. He responded in kind only when pressed, but was careful to leave out the most humiliating elements of the story: being hand-fed by an elf, the full extent of his delirium, _the kiss the kiss the kiss._

Thorin kept himself determinedly busy all that day, managing to find something to occupy himself with even in the quietest of moments. He scouted the area with Dwalin and had a lengthy conversation about the logistics of the rest of their journey with Balin, though he pretended not to notice the obvious  concern and relief in Balin’s eyes as they spoke. He sat with his nephews and almost smiled at their exhausted but eager recollections of being captured by the spiders; he talked with Nori about the possibility of acquiring new clothes from any towns they might pass by; he half-listened as Oin told the younger dwarves a story about the different guilds in Erebor and how they had flourished before the dragon came.

There was only one of them he purposefully avoided; one whose eyes he could not meet.

Twice that day, Bilbo approached him – out of kindness, Thorin thought, misplaced though it was – and each time Thorin kept his eyes fixed on something beyond the halfling’s head, grunting non-committedly until Bilbo eventually  closed up and chose to turn and leave.

It wasn’t polite, and it certainly wasn’t kind. But if they spoke – if the two of them actually sat down and _spoke_ – Thorin knew he would be as good as lost. He would beg and plead, shameless and mortifying, for forgiveness; would make a scene of himself when it was already too late, when he had already done so much harm. And because of who he was, Bilbo would forgive him even though he deserved so much better; even though forgiveness was the last thing Thorin deserved. 

Eventually, Bilbo gave up trying to talk to him and instead went to sort through the waterlogged bags of supplies they had managed to take with them when they fled Mirkwood. No matter how hard he tried, however, Thorin could not stop himself from stealing the briefest of glances at him from across the camp when he was sure Bilbo wasn’t looking. Guiltily, he caught fleeting images of Bilbo stacking up some kind of dampened flatbread, leaning back against a tree with his eyes closed, repairing his torn coat with a stolen needle and thread. He looked… tired. Tense.

By nightfall, Bilbo had been joined by Bofur. They sat together a little ways away from the fire that Gloin had made, both of them talking in hushed voices. There was a worried expression on Bofur’s face that did not suit him. The intimacy of it made something clench painfully in Thorin’s chest, made him press the bluntness of his nails into the palm of his hand as a distraction. He had no right to feel this way anymore, if the right had ever been his in the first place. But the knowledge that his mood was unwarranted only left him more disconsolate, left him restless and sullen and so _angry_ with himself that it made it hard to think of anything else.

Thorin slept badly that night, even with Fili and Kili sprawled out on either side of him. The only way he eventually managed to drift off was by letting his mind wander to the halls of Erebor-that-was; the great torch-lit walkways and the blazing glow of the forges, the lustre and comforts of the inner sanctum that he and his family had called their home for so long. The treasury; its endless halls teeming with gems of every colour and gold wrought into every shape imaginable. And above it all, the Arkenstone; the fixed point around which all of Erebor moved and breathed and thrived, constant and forever and so divine in its beauty.

His last thought before he drifted off was that treasure could not be betrayed, nor could it betray you. It was stronger, that way, than treasures of the heart.

 

\--

 

When Thorin awoke the next morning, there was an uneasiness in his chest that he could not identify. His fingers itched with it as the company ate breakfast, as they talked about whether to go around the Long Lake or attempt to cross it. He had chosen to sit and rest his back against a tree on the perimeter of their camp, staring out into nothing in particular as he turned one of his heavy rings over and over in his hands. The silver felt cool and pleasant against his fingers.

And no matter how hard he tried to remain in the present, Thorin’s mind kept wandering. His thoughts strayed far beyond the lake, beyond the rocky planes and the desolated city that adorned them. To the mountain – _his_ mountain. His kingdom, soon enough. To the endless wealth that spilled through the halls of the treasury like a river of gold. 

A quiet voice in the back of his mind wondered whether in all the treasure in all the kingdom there could be something grand enough – _unique_ enough – to force someone to forgive something unforgivable.

Thorin was still consumed by thoughts of mithril and diamonds and oceans of wealth when a small, pointed cough jolted him out of his trance. He glanced up – and every thought of treasure fled Thorin’s mind as though it had never been there at all when he saw Bilbo Baggins standing over him.

The haze lifted from Thorin’s mind as he blinked up at Bilbo in surprise, staring at him for longer than was probably appropriate without speaking. He noticed the furrow in Bilbo’s eyebrows, the tightness in his mouth, and Thorin found himself at a loss for what to say for an entirely different reason than he had expected.

Because Bilbo did not look upset, or hurt, or anything Thorin might have anticipated based on his actions thus far.

Instead, Bilbo looked _angry_.  

“I need to talk with you,” Bilbo snapped, the words harsh and clipped on the mid-morning air. Everything about him was rigid, on edge. He breathed in sharply through his nose, then let it all out all at once in a brusque, irritated huff. “Now.”

 

 


	7. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Well, I tried my damndest, but I wasn't able to fit quite everything that needs to happen into this chapter. (I think I'm destined to be 'the girl who cried last chapter' for all time, seriously.) As a result, the final installment of this story will be a short-ish epilogue to cover the last -- and admittedly rather important -- scene. Thank you so much to everyone who has waited so long for this chapter in particular: I've been waiting to share this one with you guys for absolute ages!! I hope you enjoy, and please do let me know what you think. 
> 
> As always, updates are available and all questions are welcomed at my tumblr (emilianadarling.tumblr.com).

It took few seconds for Bilbo’s words to fully permeate Thorin’s haze. They were nothing but meaningless sound at first, a minor distraction in the face of the strained expression on Bilbo’s face, the obvious frustration in his voice. As soon as the importance of Bilbo’s words truly sank in, however, Thorin felt a cold, visceral fear twist in his stomach. He tensed up, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders, and he was so _aware_ of his reaction it was almost as though time itself had slowed down.

This was not the blinding determination of fear in battle, or the constant low hum of terror he had harboured for his people every day of their exile. This fear was a yawning maw that left him flayed open, wretched and exposed for all the world to see. For _Bilbo_ to see.

Bilbo, who was still standing there. Who was still waiting for an answer. Thorin schooled his face into something neutral, desperately hoping that the strength of his reaction had not been plain to see.

In front of him, Bilbo was growing visibly more agitated.

“Well?” Bilbo asked, shuffling his large feet uneasily. There was a rigid expression on his face, as though the frustration that sometimes simmered just beneath the surface of him had finally boiled over. Thorin gave his head a little shake.

“Of course,” Thorin heard himself say, slow and stilted, his mouth seeming to form the words without any conscious thought on his part. He darted a quick look over Bilbo’s shoulder. The camp fire was only a little ways away, and their companions were bustling around easily within hearing distance. Thorin felt heat rise in his face. He stiffened, trying to think of a way to relocate this conversation. To make his humiliation a little less public.

“Not here,” Bilbo clarified, as though able to read his thoughts. His words were still short, abrupt. Thorin saw him glance over to the denser trees around them. “Come with me?”

It was still a question, not a command, but Thorin thought he probably would have obeyed an order nonetheless. He nodded, raising himself up on shaky legs.

He tried not to let on just how separate it all felt: his body standing, his heart pounding in his chest, the shock-white blank of his mind. Because even though he would have preferred almost anything to actually talking about this, he knew that Bilbo deserved answers. This conversation was always going to happen, and even if Thorin would have preferred it to wait until after the reclamation of Erebor – until after he had his kingdom beneath him again – he would just have to suffer and make do.

Thorin picked up his sword – better to be prepared than caught off guard – and called out to Dwalin as they turned to leave, gesturing down at Bilbo and tilting his head toward the forest. It would not do to disappear without a word and raise alarm. Dwalin gave the halfling a curious look but nodded all the same, and Thorin obediently followed when Bilbo lead him into the forest.

Neither of them seemed to truly have a destination in mind. Bilbo went ahead of him, moving with an unfamiliar speed and determination. The thick pads of his meet made more noise than they usually did as he picked his way over the ground. They walked until they were out of sight and earshot and further, walking through the trees as dread rose in Thorin’s throat like bile.

They finally came to a stop at the base of a great gnarled tree, its branches twisting up into the sky. Warm sunlight still filtered in through the leaves and branches, so much different than the darkened heart of Mirkwood they had escaped only the day before. The forest floor was thick with moss.

Bilbo halted mid-step and spun around, crossing his arms tight against his chest. He had left his coat back at the camp, and the movement made the light fabric of his shirtsleeves shift beneath his waistcoat, made the pale line of his throat even more visible. Thorin swallowed hard and clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to look away. Bilbo’s expression was hard, but his eyes looked almost sad. 

 _What is it you want?_ Thorin knew he should ask, but the words died on his tongue. Instead he remained silent, lips pressed together and eyes fixed determinedly on Bilbo. He stood up straighter, waiting for the onslaught to come at last.

“I can’t,” Bilbo began, cutting himself off with a sudden inhale of breath through his nose. He pressed his lips together and raised his gaze for a moment, eyes shining with anger or remorse or both. After a second, he looked at Thorin and tried again. When he spoke, his voice was choppy and strained but carefully enunciated, as though he was afraid of being misunderstood. “I can’t do this anymore.”

There was a beat – and then the words hit Thorin with the force of a physical blow, something sick and hopeless churning in the base of his stomach. After so much silence between them, so much left unspoken, actually _hearing_ the rejection felt surreal, brutal. He had known it was coming, but still the hurt echoed right down to his core.

“I don’t know what this is, but it has to stop,” said Bilbo coldly. He was gathering momentum, now, the words coming with greater speed and conviction. “Nothing I do makes it any better. You – you won’t look me in the eye, won’t talk to me. Confound it, Thorin, even when you _hated_ me you would talk to me.”  He uncrossed his arms and raised one finger in the air, lips a tight line. When he spoke again, there was an intensity to his voice that made Thorin suck in a breath. “I am here on _your_ fool of an errand. I did not risk my life in Mirkwood to be pushed aside like this. We are on our way to _fight a dragon_ , we can’t – we can’t afford to fall apart before we even get there.”

Thorin wanted to say something, but his throat felt too dry to speak. He nodded brusquely instead, not wanting to look Bilbo in the eyes as the shame of it settled heavily over his heart. It had never been his intention to devalue the halfling’s bravery, or to make things even worse between them with his silence. But it did not matter what his intentions were.  They would both have to put their hurt aside for the greater good of the quest if they were to have any hope of succeeding. 

Bilbo hesitated, swallowing hard. He looked down at the mossy ground, the movement making one of his curls fall in front of his eyes. The sight made something tighten in Thorin’s throat.

“Look,” said Bilbo quietly, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. “I know… I know you didn’t realize it was me. In the dungeons.”

There was a pause. Thorin… blinked. He stared at Bilbo, completely unable to make sense of the words. At his silence, Bilbo continued in a rush.

“The poison made you see things, I _know_ that, I’m not… I’m not a fool. But neither are you, and you don’t need to avoid me like this for one stupid mistake. It’s punishing me for something that’s not my _fault_.”

And none of that made sense. Could not possibly make any sense, and it was as though Bilbo was speaking in _riddles_. Thorin felt his brow furrowing as he ran over the words in his mind, once, twice, three times. Checking them against his own cloudy memories. After a moment, Thorin realized that Bilbo was actually _squirming_ under his gaze. He looked miserable, Thorin realized. Resigned. 

Bilbo took a deep breath as though to steady himself, then raised his eyes up to meet Thorin’s as though it took a great effort to do so. “Can we not simply pretend it never happened?” Bilbo asked, wretched and wincing as though he already suspected what the answer would be.  

It was enough to bring Thorin back to the moment, to make him open his mouth for the first time during the whole conversation.

“I knew it was you.”

The words came out in a tumble, all at once and without his permission. They were low and stunted and barely more than a murmur, but it was still enough to make Bilbo’s whole body tense up, to make his expression go slack.

 “You what,” Bilbo asked, voice completely flat and uncomprehending. Thorin shuffled his feet, feeling awkward and exposed and too large for this conversation, and he could not understand how the Bilbo had drawn so wrong a conclusion. 

“I knew it was you,” Thorin said again, slow and clear and almost _shaking_ because it was important that Bilbo understood. That he _knew_. Thorin could barely understand this conversation, could hardly believe what he was saying. “When I did… what I did. I knew it was you.”

There was a pause. And then –

“I don’t understand,” said Bilbo simply. His brow was creased, his mouth slightly open. Thorin frowned, trying to dredge up the right thing to say. But talking had never been his strong point, not even in the days before the dragon came.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin began, stiff and slow, and for some reason that made Bilbo flinch. “You have been… very kind.” He took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides. “But you do not deserve to be treated the way I treated you.”

“Oh, so the way you’re treating me now is so much better?” Bilbo snapped, but he visibly backtracked at Thorin’s pained look, raising his hands up in the air palms-forward. “Sorry. _Sorry_. Please do keep talking.”

It was like slogging through mud, trying to find the words for this. Thorin screwed his eyes shut and raised a hand to his forehead, mentally going over the events of the past few days. It was difficult to explain, to put into words, and Thorin found himself wishing that they could be having this conversation in Khuzdul instead of the common tongue. There were so many words and ideas that his mother language captured so vividly that Westron could only talk around, could only conjure up a watered-down imitation for.

“I did something very wrong that day,” said Thorin finally, letting out a small noise of frustration at how flimsy it sounded in the common tongue. “Something unforgivable. I was not in my right mind, no. But that is no excuse.” He swallowed, looking down at Bilbo with a heaviness in his heart. “You should not have to tolerate that. If you never wanted to speak to me again, I would understand. I –”

“Wait,” said Bilbo abruptly, not seeming to care in the slightest that he was cutting Thorin off. His expression seemed pinched, and when he spoke it was slowly, clearly, as though he was speaking to a small child. “Wait. You… you think I’m angry.” He paused. “Because you kissed me.”

“You have every reason to be,” Thorin assured him, but he was left blinking in surprise when Bilbo responded by throwing his arms into the air in exasperation.

“What are you _talking about_?” Bilbo demanded loudly, taking a few steps back and letting out a humourless bark of laughter. “Everything you say is – it’s all empty words and honour and stoic silence and I am _done_ , Thorin Oakenshield. I am done. Say the words you mean and be done with it, because I do not understand what you are saying.”

“What is there to _understand_?” Thorin practically roared back, then cut himself off with a wordless grunt of aggravation. He forced his voice to grow soft again, clenching his fists and leaning in closer. “I forced you to kiss me,” he hissed, spitting the words out under his breath like the dirty secret that they were. “You tried to pull away and I would not _let_ you. That is unforgivable, how can you not see that?”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” said Bilbo in disbelief, staring at Thorin as though he had grown a second head. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, gesturing wildly one of his hands and pacing for a moment before spinning back around and trying again. He clasped his hands in front of him as though in supplication, but there was a bright fire burning in his eyes as he spoke. “All right, first of all? You don’t actually get to decide what I think is forgivable or not. Second of all – Thorin, are you _insane_? You were half out of your mind when that happened! You didn’t say anything that made sense for _two days_ after that.”

“I still hurt you,” Thorin growled out, hands clenched and the humiliation of it throbbing in his chest like a wound. He took another step forward. “I still _forced_ you.”

“I’m not going to hold you accountable for something you did when you were so delirious you barely knew where you were, no matter _how_ pig-headed and self-sacrificing you are!” Bilbo snapped, standing his ground. He let out a frustrated burst of air, running a hand through his curls and looking at Thorin helplessly. “I thought you were _embarrassed_ ,” he said, and Thorin was horrified to see that there was old hurt peeking out through the words. “I thought you were embarrassed because it was me, of all people –”

“Of _course_ I was embarrassed that it was you!” Thorin practically shouted, red-faced and wrong-footed and far too loud. He was breathing hard, now, and that had probably been the wrong thing to say, but this was all too much, too _fast_ , and if he could find the magical combination of words to make Bilbo understand then he would say them, he _would_ , but all he had achieved was to make Bilbo go wide-eyed and blinking and Thorin did not know what to _say_.

There was a long, long pause as they both stood there, words hanging in the air between them.  After a moment, he saw Bilbo visibly pause to collect himself; saw him take a few deep breaths, straighten his posture, blink back some of the emotion in his eyes.

“None of this is getting us anywhere,” Bilbo declared, raising his palms ever-so-slightly in a placating gesture. He looked so small, standing there amidst the towering trees, and Thorin forced himself to take a few steadying breaths as well. For a few moments, Bilbo paused to think – and then Thorin saw something strange come over him, a realization that made his entire demeanour change. Bilbo looked up at him, and it was disquieting how suddenly calm he was. “I think the better question might be why you kissed me at all?”

It was as though a pitcher of cold water had been turned over Thorin’s head. He took a step back, shaking his head slowly and pleading with his eyes.

“Do not do this,” he said quietly, and it felt cruel, like an animal forced to dance for another’s amusement. For an insane moment, Thorin actually considered turning and running away. It was a ridiculous thought, however, and he dismissed it with a shake of his head. “Do not make me say it.” He swallowed heavily. “Please.”

“No,” said Bilbo bluntly, and Thorin winced at the dismissal. Distantly, some part of his mind wondered when he had last felt so chastised, so powerless against someone. He had never thought Bilbo to be cruel before. “No, say what you mean. There’s been far too much skulking around on both our parts, and it’s time for that to stop.” Bilbo paused, cocking his head to one side. “Why did you kiss me?”

It was as though the whole world had narrowed down to this moment. Thorin said nothing, his mind a great metal gear spinning helplessly without anything to catch on. Panicky little bursts of energy were crawling under his skin, because how could he even _begin_?

He glanced over at Bilbo in desperation, but Bilbo was still looking at him expectantly. Thorin shifted uneasily under his gaze; he licked his lips and glanced away. His face burned, and it felt as though his cloak had grown suddenly heavier. He caught Bilbo’s eyes, and the way he was _looking_ at him – expectant, irritated, hopeful? – made something inside of Thorin _ache_. He glared down at the ground, purposefully avoiding Bilbo’s eyes.

“For some time now,” Thorin began slowly, but his voice caught in his throat. He scowled and shifted uneasily under Bilbo’s hot gaze, wishing he was anywhere – _anywhere_ – but here. It felt like wrenching an arrowhead from a wound, but without the immediate relief that came after. Helplessness was twisting violently at his insides, and it made him want to fight, to _lash out_. He coughed, physically forcing himself to speak. “For some time now, I have…” he trailed off again, this time finishing with a low growl of anger, of _resentment_.

“What would you have me say?!” Thorin demanded abruptly, too-loud and cornered and _desperate_ , scrabbling at scraps for any hint of what to do. He flung his hands up in the air, taking a few steps back. “What would you have me say that would satisfy you?”

“I would have you speak the _truth_ ,” Bilbo almost yelled back, his tiny fists clenched by his sides. “Why is that so difficult?” Thorin gave his head a shake, feeling the weight of the beads as his braids shook.

“It is simple for you,” said Thorin darkly, because words came so _easily_ to him. The little hobbit who could open his mouth and bewilder trolls and save them all without lifting a finger. Instead of sympathetic, however, Bilbo looked _offended_. 

“Nothing about this is _simple_ for me, actually. Although it might be somewhat easier if I didn’t have dwarf kings pulling me in every direction, saying they’re sorry and _kissing me in dungeons_ and then acting as though I never existed in the first place–”

“I did not mean to hurt you.”

“Then what _did_ you mean to do, Thorin? I cannot understand if you do not _tell_ me, why can’t you just-?”

 “ _Because_ _I care for you_!”

The words were bellowed out, raw and so loud they actually echoed in the woods around them. Some of the birds that had been quietly tittering all this time were startled into silence, and the quiet that rang out around them was stark with the sheer physicality of its presence. Thorin was left standing there, ruddy and shattered and breathing hard, his eyes fixed on the one person he had tried so hard to silence himself around for so very long. Bilbo stood, eyes wide and not saying anything – but it was too late now. The worst of the damage was done.

“I care for you,” Thorin said again weakly, and it felt as though someone had cut into his chest, left his heart exposed and beating for all to see. “You are kind, and brave, and… inexplicable. That is why.” He swallowed hard. “Please know that if I had all the wealth of this earth, I would give it to you. But I do not.” He let out a shaky breath. “I used to think… once we reclaimed Erebor…”

Bilbo said nothing, only stared at him with such intensity it made him all the more uneasy. Thorin gave his head a shake, turning away.

“This is too much,” said Thorin quietly, evenly. He felt hollow inside, as though there were no words left to be spoken. “I cannot… I am not made for this. To bare myself open, to make myself _weak_.” He squeezed his eyes shut, but still Bilbo said nothing. Left him standing here making a spectacle of himself, making himself look the fool. “Make your fun. I cannot bear this any longer. I did not think you to be cruel, but perhaps I was wrong.”

Stiff-backed and resolute, Thorin started to walk away – but only made it a few paces before Bilbo finally began to speak behind him.

“No,” he heard Bilbo say, and Thorin bowed his head, walked faster. “No no no no no no no, please, Thorin _stop_.” He heard footsteps, heard the voice grow louder – and felt Bilbo’s small hand take hold of his arm, wordlessly asking him to stay.

Physically, there was no way Bilbo could stop him from leaving. It would be easy to pull away, to keep _going_ – but the weight of Bilbo’s hand on his arm stopped him in place as thoroughly as though he had been turned to stone. And slowly, very slowly, Thorin turned around.

The expression on Bilbo’s face was so fragile, so hopeful, that Thorin barely dared to draw breath. Bilbo looked shaken, yes – but he also looked more open, more _welcoming_ than Thorin could remember him looking for a long, long time.

“All this time?” asked Bilbo quietly, as though afraid of the answer. But he did not seem to be mocking him; had not demanded that Thorin take his leave. Tentatively, Thorin nodded.

“… since Azog,” said Thorin, glancing down at Bilbo’s hand on his arm and feeling a warm rush of feeling in his stomach. “Since you laid down your life for me and expected nothing in return. Or… perhaps longer, I do not –” He cut himself off with a small noise of frustration, but Bilbo did not look upset. Instead, there was almost a trace of humour in his eyes.

“You have the strangest way of showing someone you care about them, you know that?” he asked, dry tone mitigated by the warmth in his eyes. Bilbo glanced down, staring somewhere in the region of Thorin’s chest. “I thought you knew,” he said, sounding suddenly shy, disbelieving. “I thought it was one of the reasons you disliked me so much at first.”

With a deep breath, Bilbo raised his gaze and met Thorin’s eyes again. When he spoke, his words were full of certainty. “Thorin, I have always held you in the highest regard,” Bilbo said, and it felt as though the earth had been pulled out from beneath Thorin’s feet. As though he had been left free-falling. “Since the night I met you, I have. You are stubborn, and obstinate, and _infuriating_ ,” Bilbo said with a half-laugh, “but you’re also the most honourable man I’ve ever met. I think you’re rather wonderful.” He hesitated – and for the first time during their conversation, for the first time in _days_ , a smile spread across his lips. “And… and I care for you, too.”

It was as though white noise and blinding light had wiped away every other thought from Thorin’s mind. He let out a small, choked noise and Bilbo smiled wider, beaming at him as though nothing had ever been strained between them.

All Thorin could do was _gape_ , running his eyes over every inch of Bilbo’s face, hardly able to believe what was happening. He tried to maintain his composure, to stay keep himself in check – but it was so very difficult when Bilbo’s hand was still on his arm, warm and solid even through the thick fabric. There was a giddy disbelief rising in his chest that clashed violently with the lingering reservations that were still cloying at the edges of his heart.

“All the things I have said to you – _done_ to you –” Thorin began, but Bilbo cut him off.

“I forgive you,” said Bilbo, as though it was that simple. His eyes were locked on Thorin’s, not moving away even for a moment. His hand tightened on Thorin’s arm.

“I have nothing to give you,” Thorin insisted, grasping at every doubt and fear that had plagued him these past months, unable to believe that he could possibly be lucky enough to be given something so precious. Not without sacrifice, not without _struggle_. It did not seem possible. “No… no gems, or gold. To make up for what I have done. I have nothing.”

“I don’t care,” said Bilbo easily, and when Thorin saw Bilbo’s eyes flicker down to linger on his mouth he almost _groaned_. Bilbo’s face was as open and easy as it had been that day on the Carrock so long ago.

“I am a king without a kingdom, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin tried to explain, half-noticing the way Bilbo sucked in a little breath of air when he spoke his name. “If Erebor were reclaimed, I would give you everything that befits my station. But I have nothing to my name. You deserve everything, and I can give you _nothing_.”

“What goes on in that head of yours?” Bilbo asked, visibly bemused. He seemed somewhat exasperated again, but… gentler, this time. Fonder. He gave a little laugh, shaking his head. “I’m telling you, I don’t care.”

“Without gifts, I…” Thorin trailed off, a hint of sadness tugging at his chest. He thought of Bofur, about the easy companionship he and Bilbo seemed to share. About the confusion and stress and pain Thorin had caused Bilbo without meaning to, even with his best intentions at heart.

He was not good at this. At making people smile, or laugh, or feel loved. It was only a matter of time until Bilbo realized that for himself.

“I worry that you may find me… disappointing.”

For a second, Bilbo’s shining smile dimmed. He frowned, a wrinkle appearing in his forehead, narrowing his eyes ever-so-slightly and tipping his face upward to better look into Thorin’s eyes.

“Is that something you’ve actually been worried about?” Bilbo asked quietly. He sounded half-curious, as though he was close to solving an unhappy riddle. “Is that actually something you think?”

“I have nothing to offer you,” said Thorin emphatically, silently willing Bilbo to _understand_. He could hear the waver in his own voice, now. He was slipping, losing his grip. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to pull Bilbo close, to feel the press of his small body against his own. To keep the halfling safe and warm and his, only _his_ , and he did not have the strength to hold back much longer.  

“Oh, Thorin,” said Bilbo quietly, and his eyes were so very _sad_ as he shook his head in disbelief.  

Slowly, ever-so-slowly, Bilbo reached up his hand and laid it against the side of Thorin’s face. His hand was small and soft and warm, his thumb brushing delicately over his cheek, and Thorin could not help but lean into the touch. It felt so good, so _intimate_ , that he could not help but let his eyes flutter shut for a half-second.

When he opened them again, he was met with the calm blue of Bilbo’s gaze.

“You’ve always had something to offer me,” Bilbo said, his voice steady and sure and easy, so _easy_ , as though it had always been this simple. His hand slid from Thorin’s face, trailing down until it was resting on his shoulder. Then he stepped in close, raised himself onto his tiptoes, and pulled Thorin down into a kiss.

For a bright white and shocky moment, Thorin could not think. Everything went blank with disbelief, with joy, a great burst of pent-up energy and emotion flashing behind his eyes like a lightning strike. And then all of his fear and hesitancy seemed to melt away and he was _kissing Bilbo back_ , resting a large hand on the back of his neck and cradling him, pressing into his space, pulling him closer. It felt as though something deep inside of Thorin was clicking into place, as though part of him he had never realized was hollow was suddenly filled to bursting.  

It was impossible to hold back now that he had Bilbo like this, soft and sweet and making tiny little noises of _want_ that made Thorin feel as though his blood was on fire. The gentle press of his mouth, the untidy mess of curls between Thorin’s fingers, and it was so much _better_ than the first time, when everything had been sweat and grime and _grasping greedy taking._ He could not identify the moment the kiss ceased to be chaste and became deeper, more languid. Bilbo was so warm and alive against him that it almost felt as though Thorin was breathing him in, taking everything he offered and making it his own.

When Bilbo reached up and wrapped his arms around his neck, straining to stay on his tiptoes and not break contact, Thorin could not hold back a groan. Without thinking, he walked them backwards until Bilbo’s back was pushed up against the nearest tree – gently, so gently, just the lightest touch of back against bark. Thorin crowded him in, running his hands reverently along Bilbo’s neck. He shuddered when Bilbo drew him in closer, and Thorin was acutely aware of how much broader he was, how much bigger, how easy it was to press Bilbo’s body against the tree and _keep him there_.

Thorin had always been abstractly aware that Bilbo was considerably smaller than him.  He had thought about it in terms of keeping Bilbo safe, in terms of what it meant for Bilbo as a swordsman; he had even allowed his mind to linger on the idea in the dusky grey moments before he drifted off to sleep. But being confronted with the full reality of how slight Bilbo was, how freely he yielded control, was utterly overwhelming. It left him quietly devastated; left him wanting to wrap himself around Bilbo and never let go, to protect him and _cherish_ him like the treasure that he was.

He could feel Bilbo smiling against his mouth and it was wonderful, it was _perfect_ , and Thorin genuinely could not remember the last time he had felt this kind of unchecked happiness. He dragged his fingers over the base of Bilbo’s neck and felt the softness of the short hairs there, felt Bilbo shiver with pleasure against him.

He was claiming something freely given, and the thought was so heady it almost made him groan out loud.  

After a few long minutes they pulled apart ever-so-slightly, and the sight of Bilbo glassy-eyed and rosy-cheeked, his back pressed up against the tree and clinging helplessly to his shoulders for support, made Thorin let out a low, strangled noise. Bilbo was breathing heavily, mouth wet and shining, and Thorin could not hold himself back from pressing quick kisses against the corner of his mouth, against the intoxicatingly smooth line of his jaw.

It felt unreal, being able to touch him like this; with the knowledge that Bilbo wanted it, _welcomed_ it, that he felt the same desire that Thorin had kept hidden for so long. He dragged his mouth over the soft skin of Bilbo’s cheek, fascinated at the strangeness of smooth skin beneath his lips.

“Mine,” Thorin rumbled, unaware he was saying it out loud until he actually heard himself speak. He could not bring himself to regret it, though; he felt the truth of it from the tips of his fingers to the marrow in his bones, the knowledge that _this was it, he was gone, he was lost_ running through him like the blood in his veins. Thorin breathed in the smell of him, earth and grass and something distinctly _Bilbo_ , stroking his calloused thumb over the curve of his ear. He felt Bilbo _gasp_ at that, the sound making heat pool in the base of Thorin’s belly. “ _Mine_.”

“All right,” Bilbo breathed out shakily, mouth hanging open and clutching at Thorin’s shoulders. As though he might fall, might slip away if he were to let go. His voice was high, strained. He swallowed hard. “Yes, I’m… I rather think I’m all right with that.”

Hearing him say that – in that _voice_ , with that _look_ on his face – hit Thorin like a blow to the stomach, made something uncontrollable flare and ripple beneath his skin. He choked out a breath, completely overcome for a moment at what it meant to have Bilbo’s forgiveness, to be able speak such things aloud and be met with _encouragement_ instead of anger.

“You know not what you do to me,” said Thorin shakily. He moved so that their foreheads were pressed together, his hand cradling the back of Bilbo’s neck. “I am sorry,” he rumbled, and his voice was soft, barely more than a whisper. “For all the pain I caused you.” It made him ache to think about it; about the hurt and the uncertainty, about all the time they had lost, about everything Bilbo deserved that Thorin could not give him.

But he could spend the rest of their lives – maybe days, maybe years, there was no way to tell which it would be – trying to make it up to him. And perhaps that could be enough. 

Bilbo actually laughed out loud, pulling away just enough that Thorin could see the look on his face. He was smiling, now – his real smile, the one that shone like the sun, the one that made his eyes crease and his laugh lines deepen.

“I rather think I caused you a fair bit as well,” said Bilbo, easy and content as he reached up and tucked some of Thorin’s long hair behind his ear. His waistcoat was askew and his hair was a tousled mess, but he did not seem to mind. His cheeks were slightly flushed.

Thorin smiled in return, warm and loving and just for the two of them, but the happiness in his chest was so immense that he could not find the words to speak. Instead he leaned down and captured Bilbo’s mouth in another kiss, pressing him back into the tree and wondering what on earth he could have ever done to deserve this.

 

\--

 

Later, lying on the soft mossy ground with Bilbo’s head tucked under his chin, an echo of that same smile still lingered on Thorin’s lips.

With every breath he took, he could see Bilbo’s head rising and falling almost imperceptibly. His sword lay on the ground a few feet away, long-discarded but still within reach just in case. They were both still fully clothed – the woods were not a safe or sensible place for certain things to take place, at least not with the ever-present threat of enemies catching up to them – but Thorin could feel the warm hum of contentment along his skin all the same.

They would have to return back to the camp soon; Dwalin would undoubtedly be getting suspicious by now, and they should be aiming to depart for the Long Lake within the hour. But they could linger for a few minutes still.

Thorin played idly with Bilbo’s hair, twining his fingers through the curls and scraping his nails gently along the base of his neck. He felt Bilbo curl up tighter against him, heard the soft little noise of pleasure at the touch.

“Mm,” said Bilbo quietly, sighing happily, and Thorin could feel the warm breath of air against his chest. Then, apropos of nothing, Bilbo let out a sudden snort of laughter. Thorin blinked, waiting for some kind of explanation. When none came, he poked Bilbo softly on the nose.

“What is it?” Thorin asked fondly, and the question made Bilbo let out another little chuckle against him.

“Nothing. It’s nothing! Just…” Bilbo shifted, moving semi-reluctantly out of Thorin’s arms and into a sitting position. He straightened out his shirtsleeves, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe that of all the ridiculous reasons you chose to keep your distance, none of them were the only reason that makes any actual _sense_.”

That was hardly fair, Thorin thought as he wrinkled his nose, because all of his reasons had been perfectly sensible –

— but then he frowned, replaying the sentence over in his head, completely at a loss for what _the only reason that makes sense_ could be.  He stared at Bilbo, who did not seem to realize that what he had said was in any way confusing. Instead, his halfling was fussily smoothing out his waistcoat with a distracted little smile on his face, quickly slipping his hand into one of the pockets before he appeared satisfied. It was a pity to watch him put himself back together; Thorin had discovered that he quite liked the look of Bilbo all mussed and untidy, too caught up in the moment to care about propriety or his appearance. But the question of _the only reason that makes sense_ was still niggling persistently at the back of his mind.

After a few long moments, Thorin pushed himself up onto his elbows, slowly tilting his head to one side.

“… what is this reason of which you speak?” Thorin finally asked, partly because he wanted to know and partly because other people possessing information he did not had bothered him for as long as he could remember. Bilbo looked up from straightening his shirt collar, shooting him a disbelieving look.

“Thorin,” said Bilbo reproachfully, his expression clearly indicating that he believed Thorin to be purposefully playing the fool. There was a half-sad little smile on his face, as though this was something that should not be joked about.

Thorin, on the other hand, had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. It was… frustrating, yes, but also somewhat amusing. Like a game; as though they were peeling away the layers of themselves like clothes, getting to see how each other worked on the inside. He gave his head a little shake.

Frowning, Bilbo gave him a very deliberate once-over. He trailed his eyes from the top of Thorin’s head to his still-shod feet, then up again to meet his eyes – before gesturing to himself as though that should explain everything. Thorin’s frown deepened.

“Really?” said Bilbo incredulously. He gestured between the two of them somewhat frantically, and at Thorin’s continued silence he seemed to grow more agitated. “I – we’re _men_ , Thorin,” Bilbo blurted out in a rush, looking more than a little harried. His face was rumpled, the lines in his forehead drawn deep. “We’re both men. Male. That’s the obvious thing. The obvious problem with… you do know that it’s not as simple for us as it is with others, right?” he asked, as though he was speaking to someone particularly stupid. “It is… hidden. Not spoken about.”

“Why should we not speak of this?” Thorin asked in bewilderment, because Bilbo was making less sense with every word that came out of his mouth. He could not imagine going back to camp and _pretending_ , putting on a farce for his kin and companions. “Is it uncommon among your kind? Is it not done?”

“Un _common –_ I don’t. Thorin.” Bilbo looked pained. He made a vague gesture with one hand, staring at Thorin as though he had declared his intention to take on Smaug armed only with a sewing needle and a jug of mead.  “Of course it’s _done_ , but it’s hardly _talked about_.  There are laws, and – are you telling me that _this_ –” he gestured almost hysterically between them “– is perfectly normal among dwarves?”

Thorin frowned.  “You cannot choose who you love,” he said slowly, eyeing Bilbo doubtfully. “My people learned this long ago.” The expression on Bilbo’s face made him feel as though he was speaking another language entirely. There was a long pause.

“So you’re telling me,” said Bilbo, slowly and carefully as though he might misstep, “that where you come from, the fact that you didn’t have any… pretty trinkets to give me was more upsetting than the fact that we are, in fact, both male.”

“Of course it was,” said Thorin in surprise, pushing himself up higher on his elbows. “Not giving the correct gifts is a reflection on _you_. It’s about how valuable you are, how much I would give for your favour. It is important. Just as you are.” Pause. “Your people care enough to make laws against this? Truly?” Thorin asked, mildly horrified. He tried to imagine anyone being concerned enough with other peoples’ private business to actually meet and discuss such things, to put them on paper and make them law. To _enforce_ them. He grunted, giving his head a shake. “Your Shire is a very queer place.”

“… apparently so,” said Bilbo weakly, throwing his head back and staring up at the canopy above.  He looked torn between laughing and tearing his hair out in frustration. “I… cannot believe the amount of time I spent worrying about that, then.”

Thorin almost laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of it all – before a sudden realization left him stunned silent, because all at once it occurred to him that this might not be the only misunderstanding brought on by Bilbo’s strange upbringing. He remembered the villages of men he had worked in during his peoples’ exile, the flippancy and unfaithfulness with which some of them had treated matters of the heart.

There was a sudden buzzing in his ears, a growing terror churning in his gut, and for a moment it was very difficult to restrain himself from reaching forward and physically _dragging_ Bilbo back into his arms. He sat up fully, thoughtlessly pushing his hair out of his eyes as he did so.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin slowly, and he could hear the note of panic in his own voice. “If… if we are to do this, then it must just be us.” Thorin saw Bilbo’s head whip around to look at him out of the corner of his eyes, but he glared determinedly down at the ground instead of meeting his eyes.  

“I cannot enter this without that being understood. My people, we… we love with all our hearts, and often only once. It must be only us, no one else. I could not bear it, otherwise.” The very thought of anyone else touching Bilbo – putting their hands on him, seeing the kiss-addled expression on his face, _knowing_ him in the way that only Thorin should ever know him from now on – was enough to make his hackles rise, to make his hand twitch for his sword. A thought occurred to him that almost made him _growl_ , but he forced his voice to remain neutral, calm. “Not… not Bofur, or –”

“ _Bofur_?”

The exclamation, incredulous and offended and ever-so-slightly _amused_ , was finally enough to wrench Thorin from his preoccupation. He glanced up, saw that Bilbo’s mouth was hanging open. That there were high points of colour in his cheeks.

“Of course I’m not going to run off with the first thing that _moves_ , Thorin, who do you think I am?” Bilbo shook his head, raising his eyes to the heavens as though appealing for help from a higher power. “Bofur, though. Truly. Thorin, have you ever spoken to Bofur for more than _five minutes_?”

“I –” Thorin began, before slamming his mouth shut again. He felt badly thrown, off-balance. He tried to straighten himself back up, to regain ground. “Perhaps I have not, but you –”

“Bofur isn’t interested in me,” Bilbo stated, as though it was a _fact_ , and Thorin shook his head.

“You do not know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You– ”

“Thorin, he was betrothed,” said Bilbo quietly, sadly, and that made the righteous indignation in his chest dissipate as though it had never been there in the first place. Thorin stared, unspeaking, as Bilbo pushed ran a hand through his curls, his mouth a tight pained line. “Bofur speaks of her often. Her name was Nyr. She was a vegetable merchant’s daughter in Erebor.”

“… what happened to her?” Thorin asked, because it seemed like the right thing to say, but of course he already knew. Had known the moment Bilbo mentioned Erebor. His throat was tight and dry, and he felt suddenly sick to his stomach. Bilbo shrugged sadly.

“She was sweet, and she was gentle, and he was not with her when the dragon came.”

Hearing it out loud was enough to render Thorin completely silent, his eyes fixed distantly on the space beside Bilbo’s collar bone. One of the buttons on his once-white shirt was missing; Thorin’s mind fixated on that detail while his mind whirred and processed this new information, renewed grief pulling at his insides the way it always did when he learned the details of yet another life shattered, another of his people left ravaged and ruined by dragon fire. It brought the loss of it right back to the present; made it feel as though it had happened yesterday instead of decades ago.

“Hey, now."

When Thorin looked up, he realized that Bilbo had moved so that he was kneeling right in front of him – so close he was practically sitting in Thorin’s lap. Bilbo reached out and took hold of his chin with gentle hands, and Thorin allowed him to guide his face with his hand, to coax him into looking Bilbo in the eyes. They were still-water blue and shining, full of some great emotion Thorin could not identify.

“We’ll get it back,” said Bilbo evenly. He half-smiled, but there was nothing particularly happy in his expression. There was just steadiness, and conviction, and fear of the future so great it could only be left unspoken. “We’ll get it all back.”

And that… that was so close to what he has been telling himself for decades – with every clang of his hammer against the anvil and every night before he fell asleep, repeated like a prayer or a curse at every indignity his people have had to suffer – that Thorin could only nod, brusque and silent for fear that his voice might waver if he spoke. Bilbo let out a little huff of air, his fingers curling ever-so-slightly against Thorin’s face.

“I understand at least a little about how your people love,” Bilbo began, lips still pulled into that humourless smile. “Bofur is one of the closest friends I have ever had, and I know that he could not love another if he tried.” Thorin nodded in silent acquiescence. There should be relief in all this, and there was; he had worried and fretted and tormented himself about this for so long, and suddenly one of the major sources of self-doubt in Thorin’s life had been completely and entirely vanquished. But any relief could feel was trumped by far by the old grief.

Bilbo, however, was not finished. His eyes flitted briefly over Thorin’s face before returning to hold his gaze once more. He smiled again, small and earnest, and took a steadying breath. “And more to the point, I doubt I could ever love any other than you. Never have before, and I don’t rightly see it ever happening again.”

It was as though every muscle in Thorin’s body tensed up at once – before releasing again just as quickly, leaving him with the plummeting feeling of bewildered relief and joy that made it feel as though his heart was aching and soaring at the same time. He stared at Bilbo helplessly; at this impossible creature, at the halfling who valued comfort and safety but would risk his life for a cause that was not his own. 

For so many years, Thorin had fought and clawed and struggled for every scrap of happiness. He had debased and degraded himself in the name of his people, made do with little and jealously guarded any joy that came his way.

The idea that he could have this – could have _Bilbo_ – without having to fight for him was so foreign that Thorin could barely wrap his mind around it.

 “So it looks like you’re rather stuck with me, I’m afraid,” Bilbo finished, licking his lips and letting out a dry huff of laughter. “Whether you like it or not.”

When Thorin pulled him down into one last kiss, it felt like coming home. 


	8. At Lake Town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's over. I mean, what was supposed to be a short epilogue managed to transform into a whole chapter complete with coda, but at least it's finally the last chapter! It's been such an incredible pleasure to write and share this story with you all; the original point of 'Mountains' for me was to wrap my head around how Thorin and Bilbo could begin a relationship together in order to effectively write them in other fic, but along the way this story took on a life of its own. Thank you so very much to everyone who read it and supported me along the way, and please do let me know what you think. 
> 
> Also, remember: a coda is a separate piece of writing at the end of a story. You can choose to think the coda here happens or that it doesn't, and it's very likely that I'll be writing what could be considered follow-up fic for both outcomes. Either way, the ending remains open to interpretation. (If you want updates on further fic I'll be writing, please feel free to follow me over on tumblr!)

The inn at Lake Town was certainly no palace. It was not built to accommodate large groups, enough so that they were only able to fit two or three to a room, and the smell of damp lingered in the wooden walls just like it did in the rest of the town. But it was comfortable, and warm, and far more luxury than anything the company had experienced since Rivendell.  The prospect of sleeping in an actual _bed_ for the first time in months had been tantalizing enough, but the revelation that the town’s public bathhouse was right next door had been enough to turn them into a gaggle of squabbling children all vying for the first soak.

Dwarves were not vain in the way elves were: they had no desire to bathe in perfumes and rose petals, or to brush their hair until it shone. But going months without washing in something that wasn’t a river or a creek was more than enough for any of them, especially now that they had clean clothing to change into afterwards. From Dori to Dwalin, everyone had been eager to finally be clean.

The only thing that everyone had managed to agree on was that, as the leader of their company, Thorin should be the first to bathe. This was why Thorin found himself tucked away in the smallest and most cramped little room, clad only in a pair of trousers and a light tunic, drying his newly-washed and combed hair by the fire as he waited for Bilbo to finally come and join him.

It had been easy enough to get a room to themselves. No matter what Bilbo seemed to think with the way he shied away from Thorin when he knew that others were watching, their companions had been aware of the shift in their relationship from the instant the two of them had walked back into the campsite after _that_ conversation three days ago. All it had taken was an uncompromising glare from Thorin, however, and not a single one of them had mentioned anything about it.

Despite the lack of actual spoken recognition, there was still an unspoken understanding that the two of them would prefer to be alone whenever the opportunity presented itself. And practically as soon as money had exchanged hands, he and Bilbo had been not-so-subtly herded into a bedroom so small it could only possibly fit two with such speed and efficiency that even Bilbo had not had time to question the decision.

In the privacy of his own mind, Thorin could not help but think that it was somewhat ridiculous for Bilbo to maintain this farce of separation; for him to startle half out of his skin if he heard their companions’ voices drifting over from their campsite on the few occasions they had been able to slip away to exchange heated kisses in the dark, or the way he shifted uncomfortably when Thorin stood too close to him in public. But old habits died hard, and if this was what Bilbo needed to do in order to grow at ease then Thorin supposed he could not begrudge him that. 

There would come a day, though, when none of this mock-secrecy would be necessary anymore. When Bilbo would be proud to stand beside him, clad in the clothes of Thorin’s people and _dripping_ with yellow gemstones set in gold, showing all the world exactly who he belonged to.

He felt his mind wander as he stared into the hearth, the flickering of the flames so very similar to the way light reflected off the rolling hills of gold coins hidden away in the treasury under the mountain. The fire radiated light just like the Arkenstone did, brilliant and shining and so very captivating to look upon. The way a thousand colours seemed to shift and swirl inside its corporeal prison, radiant and beautiful and his, all _his_ for the taking, embedded above the throne he was destined to reclaim as a testament to his power, to his _authority_ , to his –

With a grunt, Thorin violently wrenched his eyes away from the fire. He was breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut and a tremor in his hands as he forced his mind to go to the only safe place. To the only calm and quiet thing amidst the glittering roiling _senselessness_ inside his head.

And so he thought about Bilbo – about the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed and how all of his muscles bunched up when he was angry and how soft he felt when Thorin had his whole body pressed up against him. He thought about having Bilbo pushed all up against a tree on that unbelievable day, about how much he would sacrifice to have Bilbo by his side once Erebor was reclaimed, about how utterly terrified Thorin was at the prospect of his tiny halfling all alone against the monster that had brought his whole world crashing down around him.

It took a few minutes of running his mind over Bilbo – the way he would huff and hesitate before saying anything important, the way his skin tasted at the crook of his neck – before Thorin believed himself to be on solid ground again. He let out a shaky breath, flexing his fingers and silently willing Bilbo to hurry up and return to him soon.

Over the past few days, these flights of fancy had grown in both number and intensity. It had always been something Thorin had struggled with; the tempting glimmer of gems, the comfort of mithril beads held tight in his palm. Nowadays it seemed as though what had once been nothing but a fleeting desire was threatening to fill his whole mind, his whole _self_ right up to the brim; to push everything else out until there was nothing remaining but the cold heft of gold in his heart.  

Thinking of Bilbo helped to keep the thoughts at bay, but only seeing him, touching him – holding him close, feeling the softness of him clutched tight against Thorin’s chest – was enough to make them go away entirely. In the meantime, Thorin was left feeling itchy and unsettled beneath his skin, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists with his eyes squeezed firmly shut.

It had occurred to him once or twice – in the midst of an episode, mentally digging his heels into the ground against how _easy_ it was to slip into fantasies of his palms overflowing with rubies, of the way the Arkenstone seemed to swirl with some unknowable light – to mention it to Bilbo. To open his mouth and just _tell_ him, to let him see the struggle in Thorin’s heart.

But he was not weak, and he was not his grandfather. Thorin knew very well what the sickness in his mind was doing: he could see it clear as day, could feel the way it tugged at his heart and promised things that were so much colder and full of greed than what he truly wanted. Most importantly, though, Thorin had the tools to overcome it. He knew well enough to cast his mind out to Bilbo whenever he felt the insidious pull of it leaching at his mind, to run his hands over Bilbo like a talisman whenever it became too much.

He had no doubt that he would be able to conquer it; that he _was_ conquering it, even now. And all of that seemed to be confirmed when he heard the door to the room creak open, looked up – and saw Bilbo standing shyly in the doorway.

The sight of him alone was enough to make some of the pressure in Thorin’s chest lessen. It was clear that Bilbo had only just left the bathhouse: his hair was dark and heavy with water against his cheeks, his skin pink and freshly-scrubbed. He was wrapped in a too-long woolen robe that he had pulled tight around himself, and he was clutching what was obviously a fresh set of clothes to his chest. And when Thorin glanced down and noticed that the _hair on his feet_ was still damp, he thought that might just be the most endearing thing he had ever seen in all his days.

“Good evening,” said Bilbo haltingly, his voice filled with the practiced vigour that usually meant he was uncertain about something. “It’s, ah. It’s been so long since I was clean, I hardly remembered what it felt like.”

He said the last with a smile on his face, closing the door behind him. For a moment, the look on Bilbo’s face was almost playful – before he glanced around the room, appearing to notice all over again just how alone they were. He swallowed, eyes lingering almost imperceptibly to the bed before darting back to Thorin again, and the way he looked just a little overcome made something warm and hungry flare in Thorin’s belly.

He stood up, and Bilbo barely had enough time to place his bundle of clothes on a chair before Thorin was pulling him into his arms, and the second Thorin covered Bilbo’s mouth with his own he could feel the persistent itch beneath his skin begin to lessen, could almost see the shadow of the mountain’s treasure fading into the recesses of his mind.

Kissing Bilbo was always like this, Thorin was discovering. It made everything else diminish in importance; it made the world fade into the background until there was only this, only _now_. It brought him out of his mind, cleared the haze from his eyes, and that was something so special that Thorin did not have the words to describe it.

There was no need to trouble Bilbo with shadows of the past. Not when nothing would ever come of it; not when he had all of it under control. So instead Thorin let out a low noise of pleasure against Bilbo’s mouth, satisfaction flooding his chest when he felt Bilbo shiver against him.

“I can’t believe you managed to get us a room together,” said Bilbo weakly once they broke apart, and Thorin let out a little hum of amusement. He reached out a hand, playing idly with Bilbo’s damp curls.

“Indeed,” Thorin murmured, voice unusually rough, and there was nothing else besides the two of them now. No mountains of gold and no seas of gems, no unknowable brilliant stone glimmering in the background of his mind. He let his hand drift lower, fingers grazing along the place where Bilbo’s robe hung open to expose pale chest. “I have much desired to be alone with you these past few days,” he said, low and dark, and Bilbo made a choked little noise.

“I… yes,” said Bilbo, looking a little light-headed – before his gaze flitted to something behind Thorin’s back. He glanced back at Thorin after a moment, lips pressed tightly together and a half-amused glimmer in his eyes. “Thorin, ah. Precisely how much fun would you make of me if I told you that I’ve never been… _intimate_ … in a bed before?”

Thorin blinked. A few moments passed while he tried to process this, unable to quite comprehend what Bilbo meant.

He had made his peace with the fact that there had been others before him: the confidence and practice with which Bilbo had slipped a nimble hand into his trousers and taken him in hand two nights ago, when they had been fortunate enough to steal a few minutes away from the campsite, had been confirmation enough of that. It took Thorin a little too long to realize that _in a bed_ was the important part of the sentence, and when he did he still gaped down at his halfing in open incredulity.

“Truly?” Thorin asked, and his disbelief was very much apparent in his voice. Bilbo smacked him on the arm.

“It was _secret_!” Bilbo stressed, putting special emphasis on the last word. His voice sounded playfully irritated, but there was something subtly serious in his eyes that made Thorin stand up straight and listen. “I could hardly go round inviting my dalliances over for tea and scones with my parents, now could I? And after they died…” Bilbo trailed off, a melancholy curve to his mouth. His eyebrows twisted into an expression that Thorin could not identify. “Well. Brief interludes with farmhands behind barns didn’t seem quite so appealing anymore.”

Thorin frowned, his hands tightening on Bilbo’s waist. At the reminder that others had touched Bilbo before him, yes, but that was only a dull jolt: those people were a hundred lifetimes away, on the other side of the world. They had no place in Bilbo’s life anymore, not the way he did. No; he frowned because the expression on Bilbo’s face was so tentative, so _sad_ , as though he was reliving a life of loneliness before Thorin’s very eyes.

“Have you ever…” Thorin trailed off, tilting his head to one side. Bilbo looked up in surprise.

“Oh my, yes,” said Bilbo easily, as plain and straightforward as though Thorin had asked whether or not he had gone to the market today. “I do believe I’ve done everything one _can_ do, unless I’m much mistaken.” He paused, glancing away briefly before catching Thorin’s gaze again. His eyes were calm, and blue, and there was an intensity about him that made Thorin’s heart quicken. “Just… not with anyone who really mattered.”

There was a pause while the words settled down upon them, and Thorin felt something both loving and melancholy swell in his chest for the Bilbo of years past. The knowledge that he _mattered_ in a way Bilbo’s other lovers had not was certainly a heady thing – but being confronted by just how lonely his halfling must have been in those days made the feeling bittersweet. It made him ache for the Bilbo who had locked himself away from the world, tucked out of sight with only his brass buttons and patchwork quilts for company.

After a moment, however, Bilbo chuckled and poked Thorin in the chest. “What about you, then? Any dark confessions to get out of the way before we make good use of that bed you somehow scrounged up for us?”

Thorin let out an amused snort. “Hardly,” he said, then gave a little shrug. “A few over the years. Companions at arms, mostly, but nothing special. It never lasted long.”

“Men?” Bilbo asked, his voice all calm curiosity.

“And women,” Thorin replied simply, and Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh,” Bilbo exclaimed, quiet and slightly taken aback, and Thorin very nearly laughed at the way Bilbo was visibly attempting to school his expression into something neutral. In the privacy of his own mind, Thorin could not help but think that the identity of his previous lovers hardly mattered now. Whether or not one or both or neither of them survived the upcoming fight with the dragon, whether or not they emerged out of this intact. One way or another, he could not imagine himself ever doing this with anyone else ever again.

The years had made him comfortable with the idea of his own death, but Thorin was quickly discovering that the idea of Bilbo being killed was another thing altogether. Even in the comfort and relative safety of this little town, the thought made sickened terror churn in Thorin’s stomach. He tried to push it aside.

“Well then,” Bilbo said at last, straightening himself with a half-smile on his face, and Thorin blinked himself back to awareness. “All the more reason to make this memorable, I suppose.”

Then he wrapped his arms around Thorin’s neck, stood up on his tiptoes, and tugged Thorin down into a kiss.

They had done this a few times since that first day in the woods; stolen moments on their journey along the river to the mouth of the lake, one particularly maddening night when Bilbo had taken him by the hand and they had slipped away into the trees once he had been certain that all of their companions were occupied listening to one of Bofur’s grand stories. That night had been all hands and hot breath on skin, a rush to completion fuelled by Bilbo’s long-ingrained fear of discovery. But even then there had been a limit to how far they could take each other, the constraints of time and place and lack of privacy guiding everything they did.

Here, however, there was no ever-present danger of being found. There was no need for hurried kisses in the dark; instead it was long and languid, a gentle but persistent exploration. Bilbo seemed content to let him set the pace. His mouth opened beneath Thorin’s and he let out a breathy little noise at the heated slide of Thorin’s tongue against his. Thorin felt Bilbo’s fingers clench and tighten against the back of his neck and it only urged him onward, nipping at his lower lip and dragging rough fingers along Bilbo’s jawline until he felt him shudder.

The hearth cast a warm glow over them both, and the way Bilbo’s drying curls caught the firelight made it look soft and coppery. The shadows around them were deep, and the dim light only emphasized the sweet curves of Bilbo’s face. There was a hunger stirring in Thorin’s belly, and he was suddenly profoundly aware of just how little Bilbo was wearing. A thin strip of fabric knotted around Bilbo’s waist was the only thing keeping him from being naked, from having the soft lines of his body on display.

A low noise of _want_ resonated from the back of Thorin’s throat at the idea, and he tightened his grip on Bilbo’s waist and walked them backwards towards the oversized bed, not wanting to stop touching him even for a moment.  Bilbo broke away from their kisses just long enough to let out a pleased little burst of laughter before Thorin was dragging him back onto the bed.

They landed with Thorin on his back and Bilbo sprawled on top of him, a ridiculous smile on his face. His robe was gaping at the front now, a long swath of skin from his collarbone to his naval exposed to the night air. Bilbo was a warm and willing bundle in his arms, kissing him with a sweetness that made Thorin want to hold him tight against his chest and never let him go, to keep him where he was safe and loved and taken care of. He worried Bilbo’s bottom lip ever-so-gently between his teeth, reaching up a hand and stroke gently along Bilbo’s neck, toying with the loose fabric of the robe and smiling with satisfaction when he felt Bilbo shiver and tense beneath his hand.

It was overwhelming, being allowed to touch and linger and _worship_ every part of Bilbo he had dwelled on, had ached to touch for so long. With one last reverent kiss against Bilbo’s lips, Thorin turned his full attention to one of the curved, delicately-pointed ears that had intrigued him for so many months –  that had left him squirming with heated discomfort before he ever suspected the reason why.  

The skin there was pale and smooth, and he gently pushed aside Bilbo’s messy curls to gain access. When Thorin wrapped his fingers around the flat of the ear and _stroked_ , dragging his thumb along the curved edge until it reached the pointed tip, Bilbo surprised him by _squirming_ and letting out a desperate-sounding whine.

“Thorin,” Bilbo gasped, swallowing hard and sagging on top of him. His eyes were glazed over, unfocused, his kiss-swollen mouth slightly open. Thorin stared up at him unabashedly, drinking him in, and at the moment Thorin could think of nothing more riveting, more _entrancing_ , than he was. “Oh, Thorin, that’s… doing more than you might think, it’s – _oh_.”

There was a beat of silence as the words ran circles in Thorin’s mind, realization coming slowly in the haze of desire. As soon as he understood, Thorin felt a jolt go up his spine, his stomach immediately twisting in frantic want.

“You will be the _death_ of me,” Thorin growled, low and needy and only hanging on by a thread. Then he pushed himself up into a sitting position, hauled Bilbo more firmly onto his lap, and pressed a kiss to the hollow of Bilbo’s ear.

The sound that Bilbo made in response was _dizzying_. His halfing was simultaneously arching into the touch and straining away, squirming helplessly in Thorin’s lap, obviously overwhelmed by the sensation. Thorin ran his tongue along the edge of his ear, felt a forbidden thrill as he took the pointed tip into his mouth and ever-so-slightly bit down, sucking gently and nearly smiling when Bilbo _keened_ in response.

He let the tip of Bilbo’s ear slip from his mouth, making Bilbo’s hands tighten on his shoulders in an attempt to keep him from pulling away. He was breathing heavily, shaking with want.

“Shhh,” Thorin whispered, and this was power beyond what he had felt as a leader, or a prince, or even as a warrior. The need to make Bilbo feel good was more urgent than his own pleasure, an immediate need that made his spine tingle and left his throat dry.

“I’ll _shhh_ you,” said Bilbo breathlessly, his face slack with need, and Thorin let out a laugh that was so shockingly _happy_ it was almost unrecognizable to his own ears. He slid his hands around Bilbo’s waist, resting them on the small of his back, and Thorin felt a shiver run through his whole body at the contrast between his own thick fingers against the soft, pale skin of Bilbo’s waist. 

“You are so delicate,” said Thorin wonderingly, thinking of the broad shoulders and heavyset bodies he was used to. Strong arms and thick muscle beneath his hands seemed unappealing compared to this; to the feeling of his hobbit shaking and pliant in his arms, caught and held and so very _willing._

Above him, Bilbo snorted audibly.

“I’m really not, you know,” said Bilbo wryly, shifting on top of him and shaking his head as though Thorin was being ridiculous.  Thorin shook his head, leaning up to kiss Bilbo once firmly on the mouth.

“You are,” Thorin insisted with a smile –

— and then the image of how very small Bilbo would be next to Smaug slammed in front of his eyes with shocking speed, violently purging every other thought from his mind as he lingered on the horror of it. The thought of Bilbo – tiny Bilbo, _delicate_ Bilbo, smaller than all of the dwarves the monster had killed that day – standing all alone on hills of rolling gold, barely a pinprick next to the sheer enormity of a _dragon_. Smaug was an inferno, a hurricane, an earthquake of destruction that annihilated everything in his path. And they were planning to send Bilbo in alone and defenseless, barely bigger than a single one of the beast’s teeth, his life being gambled on a wish and a prayer, and –

“Hey,” Bilbo called out, and he sounded very far away. His voice was firm and worried, but with a wince to his voice that made Thorin blink out of his reverie. With a jolt, he realized that the delicate brush of his fingers against Bilbo’s waist had turned into his hands _squeezing_ far too hard, hard enough to _bruise_ , and he yanked them away with a blurted apology and a sharp pang of shame.

Bilbo did not look upset, though; instead he simply climbed off of Thorin’s lap, moving so that he was lying next to Thorin on the bed, propped up on one elbow and staring at him with a look of concern.

“Hey,” he said again, reaching up one hand to thread his fingers through Thorin’s long hair. “What are you thinking about?” The question was calm, expectant, and Thorin let out a shaky breath.

“… of the task ahead of us,” Thorin replied, the words coming slowly but without any real struggle. They had already lost too much time to his secrecy and silence, and who knew how many days they might have left.

Thorin paused, taking a few deep breaths and perhaps spending just a little too much time putting his thoughts into order. Bilbo did not press him, though. He just lay there, waiting, until Thorin was ready to speak again.

“We are… so close,” he said at last, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. Bilbo’s fingers felt wonderful as they threaded through his hair. After a moment, he opened his eyes again. “So close to everything I have ever wanted, but. Now that we are here, I find I have… doubts.”

“Doubts?” Bilbo asked, tilting his head to one side. Thorin turned his head so that they could look at each other properly, and he could feel the grimace on his own face as he steeled himself.

“I know that you signed the contract,” he began, slow and tentative and already bracing himself for an offended outburst. “And I know that it is possible the beast could be asleep, or long-dead. But now that we are here…” he trailed off quietly, reaching up to stroke his hand down Bilbo’s arm. His robe was still gaping at the front, but the look of puzzled concern on his face was enough to hold Thorin’s attention. He took a deep breath. “Now that we are here, I find myself loathed to let you take on the dragon alone.”

There was a long, long pause – before Bilbo screwed up his face in a look of intense sympathy.

“I know,” said Bilbo quietly, a humourless laugh escaping his lips. He did not seem offended by Thorin questioning his bravery, which was good. Instead he just seemed sad. “I’m… not exactly looking forward to it either.”

 There was an unspoken fear beneath the words, yes – but there was also a determination so palpable it shone right through to the surface. Through the uncertainty, through the fear, and the strength of it was so frightening in made Thorin’s breath hitch.

“The idea of losing you–” Thorin began with a quiet intensity, avoiding Bilbo’s eyes as his throat caught on the words, but Bilbo cut him off.

“Thorin,” he said firmly, stroking his thumb down Thorin’s cheek.

He did not speak any reassurances, for there were no words of comfort to be had here. Just his name, as though it was a token that Bilbo had held close to his chest for a very long time and had finally decided to share with him.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said again, quieter this time, and there was a solemnness to the lines of his face that made something stubborn and hard solidify in Thorin’s chest, like hot metal being plunged into water.

“I will think of something,” Thorin insisted with growing resolve, and if Bilbo did not believe that what he said was true at least he did not say anything to contradict him.

There was still over a week until Durin’s Day. There was still time to find another way to retrieve the Arkenstone, to discover how to lay waste to the dragon without putting Bilbo’s life in so much danger. Thorin nodded, just the tiniest inclination of his head, and the movement made him freshly aware that Bilbo’s hand was still cradling his face. He refocused his attention on Bilbo lying next to him, and he was so very close that Thorin could feel the warmth of his breath.

“Whatever may come,” Bilbo told him reassuringly, as though it was the truest thing in the world. “Whatever we may have to go through, there is still tonight.”

It was true.

And there was.

With a quiet noise of desperation, Thorin took Bilbo by the shoulders and gently pushed him onto his back. He moved so that he was completely covering him, broader and stronger and pressing Bilbo down into the bed with firm hands and heated kisses that left them both breathless and broken and straining for more. And it did not take long before Thorin was undoing the tie of his robe, reverently pushing the fabric aside before smoothing his hands over skin he had never touched before.

They did not speak much, after that. Not to talk about what the future might bring, or to reach out to one another in comfort. Instead they moved in a world of quiet desperation, charged with the possibilities and uncertainties of tomorrow.

In the coming days, Thorin would remember it only in the details: the warm light from the hearth, the drag of his calloused fingers against the soft pale skin of Bilbo’s hipbones. What it felt like to have Bilbo’s body yielding under his hands, scrubbed clean and welcoming his touch, with so much trust in his eyes that it made Thorin ache to think about it.

It was very slow, and very careful, and Thorin felt more powerful like this than he ever had before. Watching Bilbo fall apart beneath him – _making_ him fall apart – was the most intoxicating thing he had ever experienced.

Later, Thorin would remember small hands digging their nails into his muscled shoulders. The slickness of oil on skin, the contrast of how their fingers looked twined together. Capturing the sounds of Bilbo’s release with his own mouth, feeling Bilbo tense and shudder against him, beneath him. The way he tucked his head into the crook of Thorin’s neck afterward, limp and gasping and still being rocked by every movement.

Thorin’s own release took him by surprise, an afterthought that overwhelmed him completely, left him ruined and empty and pulled apart at the seams. Left his mind blank and his heart heavy and his skin sweat-slick as he collapsed down onto the bed, remembering to keep some of his weight resting on his elbows so as not to crush his halfling beneath him. He felt gentle hands stroke through his hair as he shuddered again, heard the breathless murmur of gentle words in his ear.

After a minute or so of silence, Thorin disentangled them with care. As soon as he had collapsed back onto the bed, he reached out and drew a flushed and loose-limbed Bilbo into his arms.

He could not remember another time when Bilbo had been left entirely without words, but he was certainly speechless now. Thorin held him tight against his chest, resting his chin on Bilbo’s head and dragging his thumb back and forth along Bilbo’s upper arm. He held him until Bilbo’s hands stopped shaking and he finally began to relax properly, until they were breathing together, until the rise and fall of their chests fell into a gentle cadence. Until the rest of the world began to blur and fade around the edges.

As he was drifting off to sleep, safe and warm and more _whole_ than he could ever remember being, Thorin had a sudden moment of clarity. The kind that comes in the grey area between _asleep_ and _awake_ ; the kind that is almost always forgotten by the time morning comes.

There was a chance that they could die before the week was out. They could be consumed by dragon fire until they were nothing but ash and bone, or slashed open by wicked claws to leave their bodies broken and bleeding into a sea of gold and gems. Their story could be ended just as it was beginning.

But there was also a chance that they could live. That they could live out their lives together beneath the mountain, relighting the great forges and purging out the darkness that had lingered there for so long. There was a chance that he could live to see Erebor rebuilt with Bilbo by his side; for them to cleanse out the death and destruction and build something new, something _better_ , something that his people could look upon and cherish as raw pride swelled in his heart.

There was a chance that they could fill the halls with music once again.

They stayed like that, wrapped up in each other’s arms, until the dragging pull of sleep could not be resisted any longer. And Thorin cradled Bilbo against his chest as they both drifted off, dreams of a distant victory echoing behind his eyelids.

 

 

**THE END**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**coda**

 

“Are those truly the only clothes the market had to offer you?” Thorin asked in amusement the next morning, giving Bilbo a dubious look as he sat on the bed and fastened the buckles on his boots. Sunlight poured in through the open windows, and Thorin was surprised to find the sound of water and boats and birds outside to be almost pleasant. Bilbo glared at him from across the room, abandoning his struggle to tie up the laces on his second-hand tunic in favour of shaking his finger at Thorin in a chastising gesture.

At least, Thorin assumed he was shaking his finger, because the sleeves on Bilbo’s new tunic were so astonishingly long that it was quite impossible to tell. They were at least a hand and a half too long, draped over his hand and dangling free, the excess fabric flopping around ridiculously when he moved.

“Don’t you start, this is bad enough as it is,” said Bilbo warningly, and the look he shot Thorin was so fed up that Thorin could not stop himself from letting out a low chuckle. Bilbo finally gave up with a sharp exhale of exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air. “This is just – who is this made for, exactly? What creature of my height has arms the length of beanpoles, I _swear_.” He made a _tsk_ ing sound, walking over to rummage around in the pile of their old clothing.

To be fair to him, Bilbo’s clothes were indeed a particularly poor fit. Perhaps it was the closeness of the Iron Hills or perhaps it was a legacy from Erebor-that-was, but there was a surprisingly adequate amount of dwarf-sized clothing to be found around the Lake Town market. Enough, at least, for most of the company to be clothed in the necessities with only a few odds and ends needing to be cobbled together from whatever else was available.

What Bilbo was wearing, however, must have belonged to a child of Man at some point – and a particularly strangely-shaped child, at that. (Or perhaps a child whose mother was particularly unskilled at sewing, it was difficult to tell.) They were too tight in some places and too loose in others, with sleeves so long they practically reached to his _knees_. He had wrapped a cord around his middle to pull the tunic in as best he could, but Thorin suspected he might have to take a knife to the sleeves in order to make them wearable. It was endearing, at least, watching him become progressively more irritated with how badly it all fit him.

Thorin resolved that, assuming they did manage to reclaim Erebor, he would make a special point to have dozens of sets of clothing tailored to Bilbo’s exact specifications. In the bright colours of the Shire and with the most well-crafted buttons anyone had ever laid eyes on.

It was a nice thought, at least. He felt his whiskers twitch a little in a smile.  

After a little while Bilbo moved away from the pile of their old and truly disgusting clothes, turning sharply and giving him a sardonic look. Thorin absently noticed that one of his hands was clenched in a fist, as though he was holding something.

“We shall need to get them serviceable if we are to begin our walk to the mountain today,” said Thorin mildly, tightening the final strap on his boot before standing up. He could feel the smile still lingering on his face, but did not attempt to school it away.  

“I don’t know that there’s anything in all the kingdoms of Middle Earth that can make these serviceable,” Bilbo clucked, tucking his hand into one of the pockets on his second-hand trousers, and then –

There must have been a hole in the bottom of the pocket, because something small and shiny seemed to have slipped out the bottom and fallen onto the floor. He heard Bilbo suck in a breath as whatever it was hit the ground with a surprisingly loud thud, and curiosity made Thorin’s eyes flicker down to the object on instinct. But what he saw…

What he saw made him freeze in place, something inside of him coming to life as he stared down at the object on the floor.

It was a ring. Just a single, plain band of gold. There were no gems embedded in it, no designs along its edges. There was nothing special about it at all. But for some reason, Thorin found his attention so abruptly and thoroughly diverted it was as though someone had called his name.

He narrowed his eyes at it, taking a small step closer. It was nothing more impressive than any trinket or bauble that could be found by the millions in the treasure room at Erebor, and yet he could not seem to look away. For a strange moment, Thorin could have sworn he heard the murmuring of strange voices nudging at the back of his mind as he leaned in closer, reaching out a hand to pick it up and take a closer look –

“— _sorry_ , so sorry about that,” Bilbo babbled as he snatched the ring out from under Thorin’s fingers, shoving it roughly into his other pocket as he spoke. “It does slip away at the most inconvenient moments, _sorry_.” He turned to look at Thorin with an almost manic look in his eyes, his smile too-wide and unnatural. He took a small step backward towards the door.

“What is that?” Thorin asked, but Bilbo shook his head violently.

“Nothing,” said Bilbo, his voice sounding clipped and harried. His curls looked messier now than they had a moment before, and his eyes were shining with intensity.

“But –”

“Weren’t you saying something about the road to Erebor?”

There was a long pause. Neither of them spoke or moved, and for a moment the tension in the room was so strong that Thorin could barely breathe. Then, all of a sudden, the sudden stiffness crested and broke – as though someone had slowly sucked in a deep breath of air and then expelled it all at once.

“I…” said Thorin, and although it took a real effort to drag his eyes away from where Bilbo’s hand was tucked in his pocket, he managed to do it. “I… yes. I was.” Flashes of gold were dancing at the corners of Thorin’s vision, but he blinked them away. He gave his head a little shake and then glanced out the window, taking note of the sun’s position in the sky and wondering what on earth had come over him. “We should go downstairs for breakfast if we wish to purchase supplies soon, do you not think?

 “Excellent idea, wonderful idea,” said Bilbo in a rush, looking far too enthusiastic. His eyes were full of relief.

There was a beat – and the Bilbo gave Thorin a sheepish smile before closing the space between them, going up on his tiptoes, and giving Thorin a quick kiss on the mouth. Thorin made a pleased sound and leaned down to meet him, kissing back chastely and sweetly until Bilbo pulled away.

“Come along, then,” said Bilbo busily, shooting him a little smile before he turned and headed to the door. He opened it, heading out into the hall, and a few seconds later Thorin could hear the feather-light steps of his feet on the stairs as he headed down to join the others for breakfast. 

Thorin moved to join him, but he paused when he reached the open doorway. He lingered there for a moment, turning to survey the room one last time. The bed was messy and unmade, a sight that made a satisfied little thrill of pleasure shoot up Thorin’s spine. The embers were cooling in the hearth, their old clothes discarded in the corner, and discarded bits of rope that Bilbo had attempted to use to finagle his ill-fitting clothes littered the wooden floorboards.

The morning light pouring in through the window made it look like an entirely different place in the daytime, but the knowledge that they had shared such happiness here, such _closeness_ , made Thorin feel profoundly content and wistful all at once.

They were up against the world, but he had to have faith that they could conquer everything ahead of them. He had to believe they would have such moments of peace in the future.

And once they did, Thorin thought idly as he headed downstairs to join his companions for breakfast, he would have to ask Bilbo if he could have another look at that ring.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is from "The Song of Durin", sung by Gimli as the fellowship journeyed through Moria:
> 
> Unwearied then were Durin's folk;  
> Beneath the mountains music woke:  
> The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,  
> And at the gates the trumpets rang.
> 
> The world is grey, the mountains old,  
> The forge's fire is ashen-cold;  
> No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:  
> The darkness dwells in Durin's halls.


End file.
